gale  'Bicentennial  publications 

SHAKESPEAREAN    WARS 


i. 


gale  'Bicentennial  publications 

With  the  approval  of  the  President  and  Fellows 
of  Tale  University,  a  series  of  volumes  has  been 
prepared  by  a  number  of  the  Professors  and  In- 
structors, to  be  issued  in  connection  with  the 
Bicentennial  Anniversary,  as  a  partial  indica- 
tion of  the  character  of  the  studies  in  which  the 
University  teachers  are  engaged. 

This    series    of  volumes    is    respectfully  dedicated  to 

3Ttje  ^ratiuatf0  of  ttje  tlmtocrsttE 


SHAKESPEAREAN    WARS 


SHAKESPEARE 


AS   A    DRAMATIC    ARTIST 


WITH   AN    ACCOUNT   OF    HIS    REPUTATION 
AT   VARIOUS   PERIODS 


BY 
THOMAS   R.  LOUNSBURY,  L.H.D.,  LL.D. 

Professor  of  English  in  Yale  University 


Mr  i  b 


NEW  YORK :    CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

LONDON:    EDWARD   ARNOLD 

1902 


Copyright,  1001, 
By  Yale    University. 


Published,  October,  iqai 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS    •    JOHN    WILSON 
AND     SON     •    CAMBRIDGE,     U.S.A. 


^ 


GENERAL    INTRODUCTION 

TO   THE   SERIES 

"  Will  it  do  to  say  anything  more  about  Chaucer  ? " 
It  was  with  this  query  that  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of 
modern  essayists  began  an  article  upon  that  poet.  If  such 
a  man  as  he  could  feel  hesitation  about  adding:  further 
comment  to  the  comparatively  little  which  has  been 
made  upon  the  earliest  of  our  great  authors,  how  much 
more  ought  one  far  inferior  to  feel  it,  when  purposing 
to  bring  out 'not  merely  a  single  volume  but  a  series  of 
volumes  about  the  greatest  of  them  all. 

For  if  there  is  any  belief  held  by  the  common  consent 
of  critics  as  thoroughly  established,  it  is  that  Shake- 
speare is  a  writer  about  whom  can  no  longer  anything 
new  be  said,  —  that  is,  anything  which,  while  being  new, 
has  also  a  right  to  be  termed  rational.  Of  new  things 
which  are  irrational,  we  are  warranted  in  asserting  that 
the  supply  will  never  fail.  Probably  no  other  author 
in  any  speech  has  indirectly  contributed  so  many  illus- 
trations as  he  to  the  vast  variety  of  ways  in  which 
human  idiocy  manifests  itself,  whether  it  take  the 
shape  of  emendation  of  his  language,  or  of  interpreta- 
tion of  his  meaning,  or  of  the  exploiting  of  every  sort  of 
fanciful  view  about  his  life  and  writings  which  perverse 
ingenuity  can  concoct  or  addled  brain  evolve.     It  seems, 


viii  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION 

therefore,  almost  like  a  renewed  assault  upon  his  repu- 
tation and  the  interest  inspired  by  his  works  to  seek,  at 
this  late  day,  to  contribute  anything  more  to  the  accu- 
mulation of  matter  which  has  been  heaped  up  by  gener- 
ations of  scholars,  or  to  repeat  in  inadequate  phrase 
what  has  already  been  better  said  by  scores  of  men  pos- 
sessed of  keenest  insight,  of  profoundest  intellect,  and 
of  exquisite  taste. 

Yet  the  subject,  however  worn,  continues  to  retain  its 
freshness.  In  numerous  ways  Shakespeare  has  broken 
all  literary  records  ;  but  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  among  his 
many  triumphs  there  is  one  more  striking  than  the  fact 
that,  in  spite  of  the  best  or  the  worst  that  men  have 
done  to  make  him  uninteresting  by  writing  about  him, 
his  hold  upon  us  has  deepened  instead  of  decreasing 
with  the  course  of  the  centuries.  He  remains  not  merely 
an  object  of  reverence  to  the  few,  but  of  intelligent 
curiosity  to  the  many ;  and  that  too  in  a  world  in 
which  the  lamentable  state  of  affairs  exists,  that  the 
things  we  ought  to  want  to  know  are  as  a  rule  very  apt 
to  be  distinct  from  the  things  we  actually  want  to 
know.  Nor  does  this  general  desire  to  learn  all  that 
can  or  cannot  be  learned  about  him  show  the  slightest 
sign  of  abatement.  In  truth,  it  is  this  very  interest  in 
the  dramatist  which  gives  whatever  vitality  it  possesses 
to  the  theory  which  denies  his  existence  as  a  dramatist 
at  all. 

But  has  everything  been  said  about  Shakespeare 
which  can  properly  be  said?  That  there  are  points 
connected  with  his  life  and  writing's  which  have  been 
exhaustively  examined  and  discussed,  few  will  be  found 


GENERAL   INTRODUCTION  ix 

to   deny.     Is   this   statement,  however,  true    of   all   of 
them  ?     It  may  be  ignorance,  it  may  be  folly,  it  may  be 
presumption,  it  may  be  all  these  combined,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that   there  is  a  field  of   Shakespearean  research 
which,  though  frequently  entered,  has  never  been  thor- 
oughly explored.     At  all  events,  its  story  has  never  been 
fully  told.     There  are  controversies  affecting  the  name 
and  work  of  the  dramatist  which  have  never  been  made 
the   subject  of   detailed   recital.     Some   of  them   were 
going  on  at  the  very  beginning  of  his  career  ;  certain  of 
them  have  gone  on  from  that  day  to  this,  nor  do  they 
yet  show  signs  of  ultimate  subsidence.     Even  echoes  of 
those  which  may  be  considered  as  finally  settled  still 
continue  to  fall  upon  our  ears.     To  all  of  them  there 
have  been  or  are  frequent  allusions.     Scattered  episodes 
in  the  history  of  some  have  been  given  in  full.     But, 
so  far  as  I  am  aware,  no  attempt  has   been  made  to 
record  in  continuous  narrative  the  whole  story  of  these 
discussions ;  to  bring  to  view  and  to  contrast  the  differ- 
ent opinions  held  about  Shakespeare  as  a  dramatist  and 
a  poet,  which  at  times  have  come  into  collision,  and  to 
trace  their  varying  fortunes  ;  to  give  a  description  of  the 
disputes  which  have  been  carried  on  in  regard  to  the 
proper  method  of  settling  the  text  of  his  works ;  and 
furthermore,  to  furnish   some  slight   portrayal    of   the 
men,  whether  well  or  little  known,  who  were  concerned 
in  these  various  conflicts,  and  to  relate  the  precise  part 
they  took.     It  is  these  controversies  which  it  is  the  aim 
of  the  present  series  to  chronicle. 

They   naturally   fall   into  two  distinct   and   sharply 
defined  classes.     One  of  them  is  limited  to  the  consider- 


X  GENERAL   INTRODUCTION 

ation  of  the  art  displayed  by  the  dramatist,  the  other  to 
the  methods  taken  to  establish  the  text  of  his  works 
in  its  original  purity.  There  are  matters  of  dispute  in 
regard  to  Shakespeare  which  do  not  range  themselves 
under  either  of  these  heads ;  but,  comparatively  speak- 
ing, they  are  of  minor  importance.  It  is  the  contro- 
versies about  the  text  of  the  poet  which  suggested 
originally  the  general  title  which  has  been  given  to  the 
series,  and  formed  the  real  occasion  of  its  being.  It 
soon  became  apparent,  however,  that  the  two  classes, 
slight  as  seemed  the  relation  between  them,  were  after 
all  inextricably  bound  together ;  and  that  in  order  to 
understand  the  one  completely  some  knowledge  must 
be  possessed  of  the  other.  The  attitude  taken  towards 
Shakespeare  as  a  writer  for  the  stage  affected  in  the  past 
not  only  the  alterations  made  in  his  plays,  but  to  some 
extent  also  the  manipulations  to  which  his  text  was 
subjected,  and  even  the  character  of  the  corrections 
proposed  or  adopted.  The  consideration,  therefore,  of 
the  controversies  of  this  first  class,  though  in  a  sense 
entirely  independent  of  those  of  the  second,  rose  nat- 
urally out  of  the  latter.  Accordingly  in  this  series  the 
history  of  the  views  entertained  about  Shakespeare  as  a 
dramatic  artist,  including  as  it  does  the  varying  esti- 
mates taken  of  him  at  different  periods,  assumes  prece- 
dence of  controversies  on  all  other  topics. 

The  discussion  of  Shakespeare's  position  as  a  dra- 
matic artist  necessarily  involves  reference  to,  or  rather 
discussion  of,  various  questions  at  issue  between 
what  we  now  call  the  classical  and  romantic  dramas. 
Strictly  speaking,  this  should  imply  a  consideration  of 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  xi 

the  differences  between  the  ancient  and  the  modern 
stage,  between  the  French  and  the  English  stage,  and 
between  the  practices  which  have  prevailed  at  different 
periods  on  the  English  stage  to  which  playwrights  will- 
ingly or  unwillingly  conformed.  The  field,  however,  is 
by  no  means  of  this  unrestricted  nature  and  extent. 
By  classical,  it  hardly  needs  to  be  said,  is  not  meant 
here  the  Greek  or  Roman  drama,  but  the  modern  which 
assumed  that  title,  which  professed  to  be  a  direct  de- 
scendant of  the  ancient,  and  was  not  unfrequently  dis- 
posed to  believe  that  it  had  improved  upon  its  parents. 
Its  enemies,  on  the  contrary,  have  been  fond  of  applying 
to  it  the  term  pseudo-classical.  Between  its  methods 
and  those  of  the  romantic  drama  controversy  has  raged 
with  violence  for  fully  three  centuries.  Upon  Shake- 
speare, as  -the  chief  representative  of  the  latter,  the 
brunt  of  the  attack  almost  from  the  outset  has  fallen. 
National  feeling  has  been  aroused  by  it,  and  there  have 
been  times  when  the  conflict  of  opinion  threatened  to 
assume  something  almost  of  the  character  of  an  inter- 
national quarrel. 

It  is  the  English  sentiment  at  different  times  which  I 
have  sought  to  portray,  and  not  the  foreign,  save  so  far 
as  the  latter  affected  the  attitude  exhibited  towards 
Shakespeare  by  Shakespeare's  countrymen.  In  one  way 
the  difficulty  of  this  task  cannot  well  be  overrated.  It 
is  never  an  easy  matter  to  ascertain  the  prevailing  state 
of  mind  of  a  whole  people  in  regard  to  any  author  or 
subject,  even  when  ample  testimony  exists  for  contem- 
poraries in  the  opinions  of  all  sorts  which  are  put  forth 
in   profusion   by   persons   occupying  various  points  of 


xii  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION 

view.  Far  less  easy  is  it  when  the  evidence  transmitted 
from  the  past  is  scanty  and  imperfect,  and  as  a  conse- 
quence almost  invariably  one-sided.  In  such  a  case 
there  is  always  special  danger  of  being  unduly  impressed 
by  the  little  which  chances  to  have  come  down.  Scat- 
tered remarks,  of  no  particular  weight  in  themselves, 
have  formed  the  foundation  of  many  misleading  state- 
ments in  regard  to  Shakespeare's  popularity  at  different 
periods.  They  have  had  the  luck  to  survive  the  oblivion 
which  has  overtaken  the  others,  and  frequency  of  repeti- 
tion has  at  last  conferred  upon  them  among  the  many  an 
authority  to  which  they  are  not  in  the  least  entitled.  It 
is  only  by  a  full  examination  of  the  whole  field  that  we 
can  correct  the  erroneous  inferences  drawn  from  the 
assertions  of  individuals.  In  particular,  it  is  only  by 
the  careful  study  of  the  critical  writings,  now  often 
deservedly  forgotten,  of  the  men  who  took  part  in  the 
controversies  which  went  on  between  the  adherents  of 
the  two  dramatic  schools,  that  we  can  get  any  real  in- 
sight into  the  nature  of  the  conflicting  views  which  were 
held  from  time  to  time  in  regard  to  Shakespeare. 

One  exception  there  is  to  the  statement  that  this  work 
does  not  pretend  to  deal  directly  with  foreign  opinion. 
It  is  in  the  case  of  Voltaire.  This  author  occupies  a 
most  conspicuous  position  in  the  controversies  that  took 
place  in  regard  to  Shakespeare's  dramatic  art  ;  and  in 
the  varying  views  entertained  about  it,  the  words  he 
said,  and  the  influence  he  exerted  not  only  on  the  Con- 
tinent but  in  England  itself,  can  never  be  disregarded. 
It  was  my  original  intention  to  make  the  part  he  played 
the  subject  of  a  chapter  in  the  present  volume.     But  the 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  xiii 

mass  of  matter  accumulated  speedily  rendered  it  mani- 
fest that  it  could  not  be  satisfactorily  compressed  in  so 
short  a  S2)ace.  For  Voltaire  not  only  affected  the  opin- 
ions of  others  in  regard  to  Shakespeare,  his  own  reputa- 
tion in  turn  suffered  in  the  reaction  which  his  hostile 
criticism  of  the  poet  provoked.  No  small  share  of  the 
derogatory  opinion  expressed  of  him  in  England  was 
due  not  so  much  to  his  attacks  on  theological  belief  as 
to  his  attacks  on  Shakespeare.  The  feeling  showed 
itself  early  and  grew  in  strength  as  time  went  on.  For 
the  adequate  representation  both  of  his  own  state  of 
mind,  and  of  the  state  of  mind  in  reference  to  himself 
which  he  called  into  being,  a  separate  treatise  became 
indispensable. 

So  much  for  the  controversies  belonging  to  this  first 
class.  It  Was  to  those  of  the  second,  as  has  been  said 
already,  that  the  title  of  Shakespearean  Wars  was  in- 
tended to  be  applied.  These  deal  generally  with  the 
efforts  to  establish  the  text  of  the  dramatist  and  with 
the  linguistic  and  literary  quarrels  to  which  they  have 
given  rise.  There  was,  however,  enough  of  bitterness 
displayed  in  the  controversies  about  his  art  to  make 
the  title  not  inappropriate  to  them  also.  Still,  as  the 
discussion  was  here  mainly  of  general  principles,  it  had 
nothing  of  the  virulence  which  inevitably  attends  the 
discussion  of  words  and  meanings.  The  quarrels  of 
Shakespearean  critics  and  commentators  have  left  en- 
during records  of  themselves  in  English  literature.  In 
them  have  been  engaged  some  of  the  greatest  authors  of 
our  speech,  and  for  that  reason,  if  not  for  themselves, 
they  must  always  be  of  interest  to  educated  men. 


xiv  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION 

The  moment,  in  truth,  we  take  up  the  story  of  the 
settlement  of  Shakespeare's  text,  we  are  entering  into  a 
region  of  peculiarly  embittered  controversy.  The  odium 
jjhilologicum  has  always  worthily  maintained  its  place 
alongside  of  the  odium  theologicum  as  a  grand  fomenter 
of  the  evil  passions  which  assail  the  human  heart.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  unsoundness  on  a  point  of  etymology  or 
syntax  may  be  rightly  deemed  by  the  judicious  to 
betoken  on  the  whole  a  profounder  depth  of  depravity 
than  unsoundness  on  a  point  of  doctrine  or  church  dis- 
cipline. At  all  events,  I  doubt  if  in  the  house  occupied 
by  the  odium  philologicum  there  is  a  mansion  roomier 
and  fouler  than  that  given  up  to  the  odium  Shakespearea- 
num.  Jealousies  have  been  awakened  by  it  and  long- 
continued  friendships  broken ;  unfounded  calumnies 
have  been  spread  abroad  which  have  never  ceased  to 
follow  their  unhappy  victim  ;  and  the  course  of  its  whole 
history  is  strewn  with  the  wrecks  of  reputations  which, 
when  not  wrought  by  personal  wrongdoing,  have  been 
occasioned  by  revenge,  envy,  malice,  hatred,  and  all 
uncharitableness. 

Of  these  quarrels  of  Shakespeare's  commentators  and 
critics  it  has  always  been  the  correct  thing  to  express 
disapprobation,  when  it  has  not  been  the  object  to 
satirize.  Speaking  for  myself,  I  am  far  from  look- 
ing upon  them  as  the  unmixed  evil  which  it  is  the 
fashion  to  regard  them  as  being.  Critics  and  commen- 
tators, indeed,  would  rarely  be  selected  as  constituting 
the  ideal  of  a  happy  family.  It  is  not  from  such  a  nest 
of  hornets  that  one  expects  to  gather  honey.  But  if 
sweetness  does  not  come  from  that  quarter,  penetration 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  XV 

frequently  does.  Few,  in  truth,  appreciate  the  incalcu- 
lable services  which  have  been  wrought  by  wrath  in 
behalf  of  the  advancement  of  learning.  Love  of  an 
author  will  do  much  to  promote  inquiry  and  stimulate 
research  ;  but  in  the  case  of  no  commentator  will  it  ever 
operate  with  its  fullest  efficiency  save  when  it  is  rein- 
forced by  a  hearty  hatred  of  another  commentator,  and 
a  hearty  contempt  for  the  ridiculous  opinions  which  he 
has  seen  fit  to  express.  As  little  in  the  mental  as  in  the 
material  world  can  light  exist  without  heat.  At  least 
this  has  been"  true  of  the  past ;  and  there  seems  little 
reason  to  think  that  it  will  be  otherwise  in  the  im- 
mediate future.  When  in  the  physical  world  some 
instrumentality  shall  have  been  devised  which  will 
illuminate  and  at  the  same  time  not  burn,  then  we  may 
have  faith  that  in  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  worlds 
men  will  learn  to  perform  not  merely  the  comparatively 
easy  duty  of  loving  their  enemies,  but  the  much  harder 
task  of  bearing  patiently  with  and  even  forgiving  the 
imbecility  which  puts  an  interpretation  upon  an  author's 
words  and  ideas  entirely  different  from  their  own. 

On  this  very  point  one  announcement  it  is  desirable 
to  make.  In  no  volume  of  this  series  shall  I  attempt  to 
carry  the  account  of  these  controversies  down  later  than 
the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  is  a  natural 
termination.  No  sharp  dividing  line  exists,  it  is  true, 
between  periods  in  which  belief  in  one  thing  ceases  and 
belief  in  another  begins.  But  with  the  close  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  the  old  faith  and  the  old  assertions  about 
Shakespeare's  dramatic  art  maybe  said,  in  a  general  way, 
to  have  gone  out ;  with  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 


xvi  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION 

the  new  and  now  reigning  faith  came  in.  A  statement 
not  essentially  dissimilar  may  be  made  in  regard  to  the 
history  of  the  text.  In  respect  to  its  treatment  there  is 
a  marked  contrast  between  the  general  critical  attitude 
of  the  two  centuries.  The  general  critical  attitude,  I 
say;  for  in  both  there  are  particular  exceptions.  But 
with  this  limitation  it  is  correct  to  state  that  with  the 
eighteenth  century  disappeared  the  violent  treatment  to 
which  the  language  and  versification  of  Shakespearehad 
been  subjected ;  the  calm  assumption  of  editors  that  the 
transmitted  text  was  a  sort  of  dead  substance,  upon 
which  they  could  operate  at  will,  adding  to  it  or  reject- 
ing from  it  or  cutting  it  up  in  any  way  that  suited  their 
own  pleasure.  Such  practices,  to  be  sure,  continue  still ; 
but  they  no  longer  continue  to  be  looked  upon  with 
respect,  still  less  with  approval. 

A  specific  statement  I  may  be  permitted  to  make  in 
regard  to  my  own  treatment  of  certain  phases  of  the 
subject.  I  have  studiously  refrained  from  resorting  to 
comparisons  between  Shakespeare  and  the  great  dram- 
atists of  other  nations,  whether  of  ancient  or  modern 
times,  so  far  as  the  degree  of  their  achievement  is  con- 
cerned. In  the  history  of  opinion  there  is  naturally 
frequent  occasion  to  recount  utterances  of  such  a 
nature  made  by  others.  But  comparisons  of  this  sort, 
even  when  coming  from  men  of  highest  genius,  seem  to 
me,  as  a  general  rule,  to  belong  to  criticism  of  a  pecul- 
iarly valueless  type.  The  cases  are  extraordinarily  few 
in  which  they  can  be  considered  at  all  adequate ;  for 
the  knowledge  possessed  by  any  one  man  of  two  con- 
trasted authors  is  rarely  equal  as  regards  both,  nor  are 


GENERAL   INTRODUCTION  xvii 

the  conditions  the  same  which  give  him  the  means  and 
capacity  to  appreciate  each  fully.  Furthermore,  such 
comparisons  almost  always  reflect  national  prejudices 
when  they  do  not  personal  tastes.  Something  of  the 
same  reticence  I  have  observed  in  the  discussion  of  the 
different  methods  employed  by  different  dramatists, 
though  this  is  a  matter  which  falls  legitimately  within 
the  province  of  the  work,  and  is  indeed  essential  to  its 
completeness.  No  one,  in  fact,  can  write  a  treatise  of 
this  kind  without  having  very  definite  opinions  of  his 
own  upon  the  questions  in  dispute.  It  is  right  to  give 
them,  for  they  indicate  to  the  reader  the  author's  point 
of  view.  Still  the  expression  of  them  here  is  inci- 
dental, not  specifically  designed.  This  is  to  say  that 
the  work  is  primarily  a  history  of  critical  controversy, 
and  not  itseM  a  critical  estimate. 

One  further  remark.  The  separate  volumes  of  this 
series  are  intended  to  form  complete  works  in  them- 
selves, so  far  as  the  particular  subject  is  concerned.  To 
all  of  them  belongs  the  unity  of  a  common  interest ;  but 
each  of  them  will  constitute  a  treatise  entirely  indepen- 
dent of  the  others.  The  next  volume  to  appear  will 
have  for  its  title  "  Shakespeare  and  Voltaire." 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  Page 

I.    The  Dramatic  Unities  —  I 1 

II.    The  Dramatic  Unities  —  II 87 

III.  The  Dramatic  Unities  —  III 87 

IV.  The  Intermingling    of   the   Comic   and   the 

Tragic 129 

V.    Representations    of    Violence    and    Blood- 
shed      174 

VI.    Minor  Dramatic  Conventions 209 

VII.    Late      Seventeenth-Century    Controversies 

about  Shakespeare 257 

VIII.    Alterations  of  Shakespeare's  Plays  .     .     .  293 
IX.    Conflicting  Eighteenth-Century  Views  about 

Shakespeare 339 

X.    Shakespeare  as  Dramatist  and  Moralist     .  379 

Bibliography 419 

Index 437 


SHAKESPEARE    AS   A   DRAMATIC 

ARTIST 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

I 

"  He  said  that  Shakespeare  wanted  art."  This  is  the 
criticism  of  his  great  contemporary  which  Drummond  of 
Hawthornden  gives  us  as  having  come  from  Ben  Jon- 
son.  There  is  no  reason  either  for  doubting  that  the 
man  who  reported  the  words  reported  them  correctly,  or 
that  the  words  themselves  correctly  represented  the  be- 
lief of  the  one  to  whom  they  were  attributed.  In  1618 
Jonson  had  made  a  journey  to  Scotland.  While  there 
he  visited  Drummond  at  his  estate  of  Hawthornden. 
His  host,  who  anticipated  Boswell's  conduct,  though 
without  Boswell's  feelings  of  reverence,  took  notes  of 
the  conversation  of  his  guest.  Among  the  remarks  of 
the  latter  were  numerous  comments  upon  his  contempo- 
raries, uttered  with  great  freedom.  The  sentence  quoted 
above  expressed  from  one  point  of  view  his  opinion  of 
Shakespeare. 

It  was  an  opinion  which  with  more  or  less  of  modifi- 
cation prevailed  till  within  a  hundred  years  past.  In 
accordance  with  it  the  two  great  dramatic  writers  of  the 
Elizabethan  period  were  long  regularly  differentiated. 
The  literary  criticism  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
i  1 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

centuries  with  almost  wearisome  iteration  depicts  Jonson 
as  the  representative  of  art  and  Shakespeare  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  nature.  This  perhaps  did  not  come  to  be 
the  universally  accepted  estimate  till  after  the  Res- 
toration. Still,  the  distinction,  if  not  fully  formulated 
before  that  time,  was  in  process  of  formation.  It  may 
not  be  absolutely  implied  in  the  well-known  reference 
in  '  L'Allegro '  to  the  "  native  woodnotes  wild "  of 
Shakespeare  and  the  "  learned  sock  "  of  Jonson.  But 
in  Milton's  lines  prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1632  there  can 
be  little  question  that,  in  asserting  that  the  former 
writer's  ease  of  composition  was  to  the  shame  of  slow- 
endeavoring  art,  the  great  Puritan  poet  had  also  the 
latter  writer  in  mind.  At  any  rate,  as  time  went  on, 
this  distinction  cropped  out  more  and  more  in  the  criti- 
cal judgments  which  contrasted  the  two  men.  Thus, 
in  the  commendatory  verses  to  Fletcher,  which  were 
prefixed  to  the  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  folio  of  1647, 
Sir  John  Denham  assumes  this  difference  between  them 
as  an  accepted  fact.  As  was  proper  in  such  a  place, 
he  gave  to  the  poet  he  was  celebrating  the  credit  of 
having  united  in  himself  the  varying  merits  of  the 
two.  But  the  characteristics  which  common  consent 
had  attributed  to  each  are  plainly  marked  in  the  follow- 
ing lines :  — 

"When  Jonson,  Shakespeare  and  thyself  did  sit, 
And  swayed  in  the  triumvirate  of  wit,  — 
Yet  what  from  Jonson's  oil  and  sweat  did  flow, 
Or  what  more  easy  nature  did  bestow 
On  Shakespeare's  gentler  muse,  in  thee  full  grown 
Their  gracesjjoth  appear,  yet  so  that  none 
Can  say  here  nature  ends  and  art  begins." 

2 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

All  through  the  following  century  this  same  view  was 
expressed.  Jonson's  art,  Shakespeare's  nature,  turn  up 
almost  as  regularly  as  their  names  are  mentioned  in  crit- 
icism. It  was  echoed  and  re-echoed  by  scores  of  persons 
who  had  the  dimmest  possible  conception  of  what  was 
meant  by  the  words  they  were  saying.  How  com- 
pletely this  method  of  characterizing  the  two  men  had 
become  the  merest  commonplace  we  find  indicated  by 
Pope  in  his  epistle  'To  Augustus,'  which  came  out  a 
little  less  than  a  hundred  years  after  the  utterance  of 
Denham  that  has  just  been  given. 

"In  all  debates  where  critics  bear  a  part, 
Not  one  but  nods,  and  talks  of  Jonson's  art, 
Of  Shakespeare's  nature," 

is  the  somewhat  contemptuous  comment  he  makes  upon 
the  now  well-worn  and  conventional  comparison.  It  is 
evident  in  truth,  from  the  remarks  scattered  up  and  down 
the  literature  of  the  century  and  more  following  the  Res- 
toration, that  a  distinction  of  some  sort  was  felt  to  exist 
between  nature  and  art  in  dramatic  composition.  In  the 
abstract  such  a  distinction  might  seem  without  founda- 
tion. To  some,  indeed,  it  may  even  then  have  appeared 
absurd.  Why  should  art  be  unnatural  ?  That  art 
should  not  represent  some  things  in  nature  is  a  posi- 
tion perfectly  defensible.  But  why  should  art  be 
opposed  to  nature  ?  Why  should  nature  not  be  in 
accordance  with  the  highest  art?  In  the  concrete, 
however,  the  question  was  invariably  answered  in 
one  way,  and  it  was  answered  in  a  way  that  for 
generations  profoundly  influenced  the  estimate  taken 
of  Shakespeare  as  a  dramatist. 

3 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

Let  us,  however,  try  first  to  ascertain  what  it  was 
that  the  original  users  of  this  distinction  intended  to 
express.  What  in  particular  did  Jonson  mean  when 
he  declared  that  Shakespeare  lacked  art?  He  surely 
could  not  have  intended  to  say  that  the  great  dram- 
atist of  all  time  was  ignorant  of  the  very  things 
which  were  essential  to  success  in  his  profession.  In 
fact,  in  the  glowing  tribute  which  he  subsequently  paid 
to  the  memory  of  his  friend  he  took  care  to  insist  upon 
his  proficiency  in  the  very  particular  which  in  the 
conversation  with  Drummond  he  is  reported  as  hav- 
ing denied.  He  asserted  that  after  Shakespeare  the 
ancients  —  tart  Aristophanes,  neat  Terence,  and  witty 
Plautus  —  please  no  longer,  but  lie  antiquated  and 
deserted,  as  if  they  were  not  of  nature's  family. 
Then  he  goes  on  to  say, — 

"  Yet  must  1  not  give  nature  all.     Thy  art, 
My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 
For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be, 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion.  .  .  . 


For  a  good  poet 's  made  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert  thou.     Look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well-turned  and  true-filed  lines, 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance." 

Jonson  was  not  a  man  to  use  words  at  random  or  to 
indulge  in  meaningless  compliments.  Could  any  inten- 
tion of  the  latter  kind  be  conceived  to  have  influenced 
his  action,  the  responsibility  of  his  position  as  the  then 
acknowledged  head  of   English  men  of  letters  would 

4 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

have  prevented  their  utterance.  Clearly,  therefore,  the 
art  spoken  of  in  these  lines  is  something  quite  distinct 
from  the  art  which  he  told  Drummond  that  Shakespeare 
lacked.  What  this  latter  was  becomes  apparent  when 
we  study  with  care  one  phase  of  the  literary  history  of 
the  Elizabethan  period  which  has  rarely  received  the 
full  attention  it  deserves. 

There  seems  to  be  a  common  belief  that  criticism  is 
an  art  of  comparatively  late  growth.  It  is  frequently 
implied,  and  occasionally  asserted,  that  the  farther  we 
go  back  in  literature,  the  less  we  have  of  discussion  of 
its  principles,  and  that  if  we  go  back  far  enough  we 
shall  have  no  discussion  of  them  at  all.  Genius,  it  is 
said,  contents  itself  then  with  producing;  it  never  stops 
to  consider  whether  what  it  produces  is  in  conformity 
with  authorized  canons  of  taste,  even  if  it  be  aware  that 
such  canons  exist.  This  happy  condition  of  ignorance 
or  indifference,  assumed  to  be  characteristic  of  early 
times,  belongs  to  the  realm  of  fiction  rather  than  of  fact. 
A  critical  age  may  not  be  creative ;  but  a  creative  age 
is  always  critical.  It  has  to  be  so  by  the  very  law  of  its 
being.  The  new  experiments  it  is  constantly  making, 
the  new  forms  it  is  introducing,  the  new  methods  of 
expression  to  which  it  is  resorting,  —  all  these  compel  it 
to  give  a  reason  for  their  employment  to  itself,  if  not 
to  others.  Whatever  it  does  will  be  made  the  sub- 
ject of  comment,  and  consequently  of  attack  and  de- 
fence. Controversy,  therefore,  is  always  going  on  in  a 
creative  age.  That  the  record  of  it  does  not  come  down 
to  us  at  all,  or  at  best  comes  down  scantily,  is  due  to 
other  causes  than  lack  of  discussion  at  the  time,  or  lack 

5 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

of  interest  in  the  subjects  discussed.  In  early  days 
there  are  no  official  organs  existing  for  the  purpose  of 
recording  the  conflicting  views  and  beliefs  which  divide 
men  into  hostile  camps.  Far  the  greatest  part  of  the 
most  thoughtful  criticism  then  expressed  dies  away  with 
the  breath  that  utters  it.  From  chance  allusion  only, 
or  at  best  from  occasional  pamphlets,  do  we  get  any  con- 
ception of  the  arguments  that  once  tasked  the  intellects 
of  the  disputants  and  sometimes  aroused  their  passions. 
Naturally,  therefore,  but  little  critical  discussion 
has  reached  us  from  the  Elizabethan  age.  Still, 
enough  of  it  has  survived  to  make  it  clear  that  it  was 
an  age  of  keen  literary  controversy.  During  the  whole 
of  that  period  a  furious  war  raged  between  the  partisans 
of  what  we  should  now  call  respectively  the  classical 
and  the  romantic  school.  Though  no  such  names  were 
then  known,  the  realities  flourished  as  potently  as  they 
have  at  any  time  since.  In  certain  ways  the  battle  was 
then  fought  and  won  on  ground  which  has  never  since 
been  contested.  It  is  easy  to  understand  how  the  con- 
flict should  have  arisen.  The  Latin  and  Greek  litera- 
tures were  the  only  ones  with  which  the  educated  men 
of  that  day  were  familiar  as  a  class.  The  steadily  in- 
creasing attention  paid  to  the  two,  which  went  on  during 
the  whole  of  the  sixteenth  century,  developed  at  last  a 
body  of  scholars  who  sought  to  make  everything  con- 
form to  the  rules  and  practices  which  classical  antiquity 
had  established,  whether  suited  or  not  to  modern  condi- 
tions. It  met  with  determined,  though  to  a  certain 
extent  blind,  resistance  from  that  new  life  which 
was  running  almost  riot  in  the  veins  of  the  men  who 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

were  creating  the  literature  which  in  some  respects  we 
look  upon  as  the  proudest  in  the  records  of  our  speech. 
One  phase  of  this  long-continued  struggle  was  the  reso- 
lute attempt  made  to  discard  "  rude  and  beggarly  rym- 
ing,"  as  it  was  called,  and  for  it  substitute  in  English 
poetry  the  metrical  forms  of  the  ancients.  Hence  in  the 
literature  of  that  period  we  come  across  dolorous  sap- 
phics,  lame  iambic  trimeters,  and  lumbering  hexameters ; 
and  in  this  slough  of  pedantry  we  find  men  of  genius 
like  Sidney  and  Spenser  occasionally  wallowing.  Little 
success  attended  the  attack  on  ryme,  though  it  is  pos- 
sible that  it  may  have  had  indirectly  some  influence  in 
strengthening  the  tendency  to  make  blank  verse  the 
favorite  measure  for  dramatic  composition. 

A  far  more  determined  effort,  however,  was  put  forth 
to  compel  the  drama  of  that  period  to  conform  to  the 
rules  which  were  supposed  to  govern  the  ancient  stage. 
Conditions  then  existed  which  it  might  seem  would 
contribute  materially  to  the  adoption  of  these.  A  move- 
ment of  a  similar  kind  had  been  begun  some  time  before 
in  Italy.  There  it  had  achieved  a  triumph.  The  example 
thus  held  out  was  full  of  encouragement  to  those  who 
sought  to  rescue  the  English  stage  from  what  they  chose 
to  call  barbarism.  During  the  latter  part  of  the  six- 
teenth century  and  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth, 
Italian  literature  exercised  over  English  an  influence 
greater  than  it  has  ever  exerted  since.  Furthermore, 
the  dramatic  ideal  set  up  by  it  came  reinforced  with  the 
plea  that  it  embodied  the  conceptions  and  followed  the 
practice  of  the  ancients.  In  this  movement  for  the  so- 
called  reformation  of  the  English  stage  we  find  the  key  to 

7 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

explain  Jonson's  words.  In  his  statement  that  Shake- 
speare lacked  art  is  concentrated  the  issue  which  has 
been  in  controversy  between  the  adherents  of  the  classi- 
cal and  the  romantic  school  since  the  birth  of  the 
modern  drama.  In  this  issue  are  involved  several  dis- 
tinct questions.  The  one  which  has  played  far  the  most 
important  part  in  the  conflict  has  naturally  the  first 
claim  to  consideration.  This  is  the  doctrine  of  the 
unities. 

It  is  outside  the  design  of  this  work  to  enter  into 
any  account  of  this  doctrine  save  so  far  as  it  concerns 
the  English  stage.  For  three  centuries  controversy  in 
regard  to  it  has  raged  with  only  occasional  cessation. 
About  it  volumes  have  been  written  and  further  vol- 
umes are  yet  to  be  written.  Even  among  its  supporters 
there  has  been  wide  disagreement  as  to  the  exact  scope 
of  its  rules.  Here  only  so  much  needs  to  be  said  about 
it  as  bears  directly  upon  the  way  in  which,  and  the  ex- 
tent to  which,  it  came  to  affect  the  English  theatre,  and 
as  a  result  of  that,  the  influence  it  exerted  upon  the 
estimate  taken  of  Shakespeare  as  a  dramatic  artist. 
Scholars  will  forgive  what  will  strike  them  as  the  obtru- 
sion of  the  commonest  of  commonplaces  when  they  find 
here  a  definition  of  the  doctrine.  In  the  varying  inter- 
pretations which  have  at  times  been  put  upon  the  rules 
constituting  it,  the  better  course  seems  to  be  to  furnish 
at  the  outset  a  statement  of  the  precise  meaning  given 
to  them  in  the  following  pages.  They  will  be  set  forth 
as  briefly  as  possible.  The  doctrine  of  the  unities,  it 
may  then  be  said,  consists  in  the  three  following 
points :  — 

8 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

First,  the  events  occurring  in  the  play  acted  upon  the 
stage  must  be  represented  as  having  taken  place  within 
a  period  of  twenty-four  hours  or  less ;  that  is  to  say, 
they  must  not  extend  over  the  space  of  one  natural  day. 
This  is  the  unity  of  time.  The  reason  given  for  the 
rule  is  that  the  duration  of  the  action  which  goes  on  in 
the  play  should  come  as  near  as  possible  to  the  duration 
of  the  period  in  which  it  is  represented.  As  the  latter 
rarely  covers  more  than  three  hours,  the  drama  in  which 
the  events  depicted  as  occurring  come  nearest  to  this 
space  can  be  deemed  the  nearest  imitation  of  nature. 
The  time,  however,  has  been  occasionally  lengthened 
beyond  the  limits  here  specified.  Aristotle  reported 
that  such  was  occasionally  the  practice  of  the  ancients. 
Corneille,  who  felt  keenly  how  hard  upon  the  modern 
author  was  the  pressure  of  this  rule,  was  disposed  to 
prolong  the  time  to  thirty  hours.  This  extension  was 
assented  to  reluctantly,  whenever  assented  to  at  all,  by 
the  stricter  advocates  of  the  doctrine.  It  was  a  conces- 
sion to  human  infirmity  which  they  might  be  forced  to 
put  up  with ;  but  they  made  no  pretence  to  look  upon 
it  with  approval.  Furthermore,  between  those  who 
were  willing  to  prolong  the  duration  of  the  action 
somewhat  beyond  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  those  who 
sought  to  restrict  it  as  nearly  as  possible  to  the  exact 
duration  of  the  representation,  sprang  up  a  third  party, 
which  insisted  that  the  time  should  be  confined  to  the 
artificial  instead  of  the  natural  day.  The  period  be- 
tween sunrise  and  sunset  was  all  that  in  their  eyes  could 
be  properly  allotted.  Differences  such  as  these,  it  will  be 
seen,  are  mainly  over  details  ;  they  do  not  concern  the 

9 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

justice  of  the  rule  itself.     They  are  controversies  simply 
between  what  is  allowable  and  what  is  praiseworthy. 

The  second  point  is  that  the  series  of  events  that  are 
represented  in  the  play  must  be  limited  to  one  place. 
This  does  not  ordinarily  mean  —  at  least  in  the  English 
theatre  —  one  room  or  one  house.  But  just  as  the  ideal 
attempted  to  be  reached  was  to  have  the  time  of  the 
action  no  longer  than  the  time  of  representation,  so  also 
at  certain  periods,  and  especially  in  certain  countries,  a 
strenuous  effort  was  put  forth  that  nothing  should  take 
place  in  the  performance  of  the  play  which  would 
necessitate  any  change  of  scene  whatever.  The  nearer 
an  approach  was  made  to  this  condition  of  things,  the 
more  it  was  felt  that  Art  was  justified  of  her  children. 
Still,  on  the  English  stage  this  was  an  ideal  rarely 
insisted  upon,  and  less  often  attained.  Much  oftener 
was  the  requirement  carried  out  that  there  should  be  no 
change  of  scene  in  any  one  act.  But  these  are  limita- 
tions which  meet  with  favor  or  disfavor  according-  to  the 
opinions  or  prejudices  of  individuals.  In  general  the 
rule  means  that  the  places  in  which  the  scenes  are  laid 
shall  not  be  so  remote  from  each  other  that  the  charac- 
ters cannot  be  supposed  to  pass  from  one  to  the  other 
in  the  limited  time  allowed  for  the  action  of  the  play. 
Consequently  various  localities  in  the  same  town  may 
be  used  for  separate  scenes  in  accordance  with  this  rule. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  impossible  that  cities  in  differ- 
ent countries  —  such  for  instance  as  Rome  in  Italy  and 
Alexandria  in  Egypt  —  can  be  looked  upon  as  being  in 
conformity  with  its  requirements.  This  is  the  unity  of 
place. 

10 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

The  third  point  is  the  mnt^i42f_ji£±iianJ  About  the 
precise  signification  to  be  given  to  this  rule,  about  the 
nature  and  extent  of  its  requirement,  there  has  been 
even  wider  divergence  of  opinion  than  about  the  scope 
of  either  of  the  others.  Certainly  there  have  been 
wider  divergences  in  its  application.  It  is  sufficient  to 
say  that  as  used  in  this  work  it  means  that  there  should 
be  but  one.  plot.  Furthermore,  the  development  of  it 
must  be  orderly.  Any  matter  that  would  interfere  with 
this  ought  not  to  be  brought  into  the  play.  This  limita- 
tion does  not  necessarily  involve  the  abolition  of  subor- 
dinate plots,  though  the  rejection  of  any  such  has 
sometimes  been  proclaimed  as  essential.  It  requires  no 
more,  however,  than  the  observance  of  the  rule  that  if 
they  are  introduced  they  are  to  be  made  subservient  to 
the  main  plot,  ..and  to  help  carry  on  its  action  and  bring 
about  its  denouement.  Were  this  not  the  case,  we 
should  be  having,  in  reality,  two  plays  instead  of  one. 

These  three  requirements  —  of  time,  of  place,  of  ac- 
tion —  constitute,  then,  the  doctrine  of  the  unities.  Upon 
them  in  the  eyes  of  the  classicists  hang  all  the  law  and 
the  prophets  that  have  to  do  with  the  drama.  Upon 
their  exact  observance  depends  the  salvation  of  every 
man,  not  necessarily  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  dramatic  artist. 
The  three  unities,  it  has  been  said;  but  only  two  of 
them  need  much  to  be  considered.  Nobody  seriously 
questions  the  propriety  of  the  rule  requiring  unity  of 
action.  No  adherent  of  the  romantic  drama  ever  denied 
its  binding  force,  —  at  least  as  he  understood  it,  and  not 
as  some  one  else  defined  it.  Unlike  the  other  two,  it 
carries  on  its  face  the  necessity  of  its  being.     As  a  con- 

11 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

sequence,  in  the  controversies  which  have  gone  on  in 
regard  to  the  unities,  this  particular  one,  though  first  in 
importance,  has  been  the  one  least  considered.  In  fact, 
it  has  usually  been  dropped  out  of  the  discussion  en- 
tirely. It  is  the  unities  of  time  and  of  place  to  which 
alone  attention  has  been  directed.  It  is  with  them  only 
that  critical  literature  deals  to  any  extent.  It  is  they 
that  are  almost  invariably  specified  when  any  attempt 
is  made  to  test  any  particular  play  as  to  the  degree  of 
its  conformity  to  the  general  doctrine.  So  regularly  is 
this  the  case  that  when  violation  of  the  unities  is 
spoken  of  in  the  following  pages,  those  of  time  and 
place  will  ordinarily  be  the  only  ones  intended,  unless 
special  attention  is  called  to  that  of  action. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  Shakespeare  rarely 
conforms  to  these  two.  In  the  so-called  Histories  they 
are  absolutely  disregarded.  In  them  the  period  of  time 
extends  over  many  years,  and  so  little  attention  is  paid 
to  the  unity  of  place  that  successive  scenes  in  the  same 
act  are  sometimes  supposed  to  occur  in  cities  and 
countries  scores  and  even  hundreds  of  miles  apart. 
These  Histories  indeed  have  generally  been  credited 
with  being  a  law  unto  themselves.  This  was  a  feeling 
which  showed  itself  at  the  very  beginning.  As  early  as 
1591  Florio  represented  the  views  of  the  severer  school 
of  critics  in  saying  that  the  plays  the  English  stage 
possessed  were  neither  right  comedies  nor  right  trage- 
dies. He  described  them  specifically  as  "representa- 
tions of  histories  without  any  decorum."  1     The  line  of 

1  Quoted  by  Malone  in  his  '  Historical  Account  of  the  English 
Stage,'  Shakespeare  Works,  variorum  of  1821,  vol.  iii.  p.  41. 

12 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

defence  which  has  often  been  taken  for  these  produc- 
tions would  strictly  be  inapplicable  to  the  tragedies. 
Yet  from  some  of  these  they  differ  in  degree  rather  than 
in  kind.  The  greatest  of  the  latter,  such  as  '  Hamlet,' 
'Lear,'  'Macbeth,'  and  'Othello,'  disregard  utterly  the 
unities  of  time  and  place.  In  the  comedies,  while  there 
is  generally  much  closer  conformity  to  these  canons, 
there  is  wide  variation  from  any  strict  compliance  with 
their  requirements.  The  time  of  the  action  is  usually 
two  or  more  days  in  those  where  the  rules  appear  to 
have  been  most  rigidly  observed.  In  some  instances 
it  extends  to  weeks  and  months.  In  the  case  of  '  The 
Winter's  Tale,'  an  interval  of  sixteen  years  elapses 
between  the  third  and  fourth  acts.  In  so  doing, 
Shakespeare  was  only  acting  as  did  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries, though  even  among  his  fellow  playwrights 
there  were  not  wanting  men  to  denounce  the  course 
usually  followed  as  opposed  to  the  example  of  the 
ancients,  and  therefore  obviously  reprehensible. 

It  is  equally  evident  that  it  is  Shakespeare's  practice 
which  is  the  one  followed  upon  the  modern  stage. 
Stress  is  no  longer  laid  upon  the  unities  of  time  and 
place.  In  regard  to  these  the  doctrine  is  now  so  thor- 
oughly discredited  in  theory  and  discarded  in  practice 
that  there  are  playwrights  of  our  day  who,  so  far  from 
accepting  it,  do  not  even  know  of  its  ever  having  had  an 
existence.  Accordingly  it  might  seem  an  unnecessary 
slaying  of  the  slain  to  consider  it  here  at  any  length. 
Such  an  impression,  however,  would  be  a  mistake.  The 
weight  which  the  belief  in  it  has  had  upon  the  estimate 
formed  of  Shakespeare  has  been  so  unmeasured  that  a 

13 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

careful  examination  of  its  influence  in  English  critical 
literature  must  always  be  a  matter  of  first  importance 
in  the  eyes  of  the  special  student  of  his  career  and  repu- 
tation. Nor  indeed  can  absolute  confidence  be  felt  that, 
at  some  period  in  the  revolution  of  the  ever-changing 
canons  of  taste  and  criticism,  the  doctrine  of  the  unities 
may  not,  for  a  while  at  least,  come  again  into  fashion. 
It  is  improbable,  to  be  sure ;  it  is  by  no  means  impos- 
sible. The  field  of  battle  is  at  present  held  by  the 
romanticists ;  but  it  cannot  be  forgotten  that  for  nearly 
a  century  and  a  half  even  of  the  English  drama  it  was 
occupied  by  the  classicists.  In  France  its  sway  over 
the  belief  and  conduct  of  men  was,  from  the  middle  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  almost  unmeasured.  It  was 
not,  indeed,  until  1827  that  Victor  Hugo,  in  the  preface 
to  his  drama  of  Cromivell,  sounded  the  trumpet  blast 
that  shook  for  the  first  time  the  literary  traditions  of 
his  native  land;  for  though  at  intervals  inveighed 
against  before,  they  had  never  lost  perceptibly  their 
hold.  Yet  even  in  spite  of  the  triumph  which  he  and 
his  associates  subsequently  achieved,  it  is  clear  that  the 
doctrine  of  the  unities,  though  no  longer  held  impera- 
tive, is  still  dear  at  heart  to  educated  Frenchmen; 
that  many  of  them  look  back  regretfully  to  the  days 
when  submission  to  its  behests  was  deemed  absolutely 
essential  to  the  highest  art,  and  feel  that  the  liberty 
now  enjoyed  is  only  another  name  for  license. 

Of  any  such  sentiment  there  is  now  little  exhibition 
amonsr  the  members  of  our  own  race.  Some  modern 
English  writers,  it  is  true,  have  occasionally  constructed 
dramas  in  which  the  unities  have  been  strictly  preserved. 

14 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

They  may  have  produced  them  for  the  sake  of  experi- 
ment, or  possibly  in  accordance  with  their  own  convic- 
tions. Browning  is  a  case  in  point.  Three  of  his 
plays  —  'The  Return  of  the  Druses,'  'Colombe's  Birth- 
day,' and  'Luria'  —  are  all  limited  to  one  day  and 
one  place.  Even  '  Prince  Victor  and  Prince  Charles ' 
and  '  A  Soul's  Tragedy '  —  the  last  far  the  best  of  all  — 
are  divided  into  two  parts ;  and  in  both  each  part 
strictly  observes  the  unities  of  time  and  place.  But 
plays  like  these  —  never  acted  or  unsuccessful  if  acted  — 
are  not  representative  of  the  dominant  influences  which 
now  affect  the  English  stage.  In  general,  these  re- 
quirements, once  deemed  essential,  are  at  present  sys- 
tematically ignored  or  contemptuously  disallowed,  even 
when  they  are  not  ignorantly  disregarded.  They  are 
looked  upon  as  trammelling  the  freedom  of  legitimate 
movement.  If  we  are  right  now  in  this  view,  it  is  need- 
less to  add  that  Shakespeare  was  right  long  before. 
Was  he  therefore  really  wanting  in  art,  as  Jonson 
asserted,  and  as  men  continued  to  repeat  for  nearly  two 
hundred  years  after  Jonson  was  dead?  In  order  to 
answer  this  question  satisfactorily,  as  well  as  to  under- 
stand the  nature  of  the  estimate  in  which  the  Great 
dramatist  has  been  held,  it  will  be  necessary  to  give  a 
brief  outline  of  the  history  of  the  doctrine  of  the  unities, 
so  far  as  it  relates  to  the  English  stage.  Then  we  shall 
be  in  a  position  to  comprehend  whether  Shakespeare's 
violation  of  these  rules  was  due  to  carelessness  or 
design ;  whether  his  so-called  lack  of  art  sprang  from 
ignorance  or  indifference  on  his  part,  or  from  an  entirely 
different  view  of  what  constitutes  art. 

15 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

Aristotle,  it  is  to  be  said  in  the  first  place,  is  the  one 
usually  credited  with  formulating  the  doctrine  of  the 
unities,  basing  it  upon  the  practice  of  the  Greek  trage- 
dians. His  name  is  almost  invariably  mentioned  in 
connection  with  it.  Accordingly,  it  is  apt  to  strike 
readers  with  surprise  when  they  find  that  in  the  treatise 
on  'Poetics'  —  the  only  work  in  which  Aristotle  touches 
upon  the  matter  at  all  —  it  is  the  unity  of  action  alone 
upon  which  he  lays  stress.  About  the  unity  of  time 
there  is  but  one  sentence,  and  the  observation  in  regard 
to  it  occurs  almost  incidentally.  He  is  led  to  refer  to 
it  by  his  discussion  of  the  distinction  that  exists  be- 
tween dramatic  and  epic  poetry.  "  Tragedy,"  he  says, 
"  is  especially  bounded  by  one  period  of  the  sun  [that  is, 
one  entire  natural  day],  or  admits  but  a  small  variation 
from  that  period ;  but  the  epopee  is  not  defined  within 
a  certain  time,  and  in  this  it  differs  from  tragedy, 
though  at  first  tragedy,  no  less  than  epic  poetry,  was 
not  confined  to  any  portion  of  time." 

This  is  the  somewhat  slender  basis  upon  which  the 
doctrine  of  the  unities  has  been  built  up,  so  far.  as  the 
one  great  authority  credited  with  formulating  it  had  any 
thing  whatever  to  do  with  its  creation.  It  is  worthy  of 
notice  that  Aristotle  does  not  hold  the  action  down 
rigidly  to  four  and  twenty  hours.  He  allows  a  small 
variation  from  it,  basing  this  privilege  probably  upon 
the  occasional  modification  of  the  rule  that  was  prac- 
tised upon  the  Greek  stage.  Nor  does  he  even  mention 
the  unity  of  place;  though  it  is  just  to  admit  that  this 
is  an  almost  inevitable  sequence  from  the  unity  of  time. 
But  throughout  there  is  nothing  to  indicate  that  he  lays 

16 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

much  stress  upon  the  latter  as  a  principle  of  vital  im- 
portance. His  language  is  not  at  all  that  of  a  law- 
giver; it  is  merely  that  of  an  observer.  He  is  simply 
registering  the  practice  prevalent  upon  the  Greek  stage. 
He  describes  it  in  precisely  the  same  way  as  he  might 
have  put  on  record  a  point  of  linguistic  usage,  about 
the  abstract  right  or  wrong  of  which  he  entertained  no 
opinion,  or  at  least  expressed  none. 

It  seems  as  if  it  must  have  been  students  of  Aris- 
totle, rather  than  Aristotle  himself,  who  are  to  be  cred- 
ited with  the  responsibility  for  the  great  weight  which 
was  placed  upon  the  doctrine  of  the  unities  and  for  the 
belief  in  its  obligatory  observance.  It  was  in  Italy  that 
it  had  its  birth,  though  in  France  it  found  finally  its 
cherished  home.  Its  history  outside  of  the  English 
stage  does  not  specially  concern  us  here.  It  is  suffi- 
cient to  say  that  the  credit  or  discredit  of  having  been 
the  first  modern  writer  to  construct  a  drama  in  which 
the  unities  of  time  and  place  are  regularly  observed, 
is  generally  given  to  Giovanni  Giorgio  Trissino,  a 
scholar  and  poet  of  the  court  of  Leo  X.  He  was  born 
at  Vicenza  in  1478  and  died  at  Rome  in  1550.  The 
play  referred  to  is  the  tragedy  of  Sofonisba.  It  is 
commonly  said  to  have  been  written  in  1515,  and 
was  printed  about  ten  years  after.  The  example  of 
Trissino  speedily  found  imitators  in  his  own  country. 
It  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  influence  of  the 
principles  he  advocated  and  of  the  methods  he  adopted 
began  to  be  felt  in  foreign  lands.  Their  progress  was 
assisted  by  the  increasing  veneration  which  was  paid 
to  the  works  of  classical  antiquity,  especially  of  Greek 
2  17 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

literature.  In  time  these  rules  came  to  play  the  same 
vigorous  and  damnatory  part  in  the  drama  which  the 
Athanasian  creed  has  done  in  theology.  It  is  hard 
indeed  for  us  now  to  realize  the  importance  that  was 
once  attached  to  the  doctrine  of  the  unities,  how  fer- 
vently or  rather  ferociously  it  was  insisted  upon,  and 
how  much  opprobrium  fell  upon  those  who  through 
carelessness  about  it,  or  ignorance  of  it,  or  disbelief 
in  it,  failed  to  conform  to  its  requirements. 

In  England  the  doctrine  was  early  advocated.  Long 
before  the  coming  of  Shakespeare  it  had  been  preached 
as  the  only  true  dramatic  gospel.  For  its  disregard  of 
it  the  English  stage  was  taunted  with  barbarism.  In 
the  dedication  of  his  comedy  of  'Promos  and  Cas- 
sandra,' printed  in  1578,  George  Whetstone  expressed 
himself  with  earnestness  on  this  very  topic.  He 
attacked  the  drama  of  Italy,  France,  Spain,  and  Ger- 
many, as  deviating  from  the  practice  of  the  ancients 
in  various  particulars.  That  of  his  own  country 
he  held  up  to  special  censure  for  its  disregard  of 
the  unities  of  time  and  place.  "  The  Englishman,"  he 
said,  "  in  this  quality  is  most  vain,  indiscreet,  and  out 
of  order.  He  first  grounds  his  work  on  impossibilities : 
then  in  three  hours  runs  he  through  the  world;  mar- 
ries, gets  children,  makes  children  men,  men  to  con- 
quer kingdoms,  murder  monsters,  and  bringeth  gods 
from  heaven  and  fetcheth  devils  from  hell." 

Whetstone,  however,  was  far  from  being  a  stickler 
for  any  rigid  enforcement  of  the  doctrine.  He  him- 
self observed  it  with  a  looseness  which  would  have 
brought  down  upon  his  head  the  heaviest  censure  of 

18 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

its  later  advocates,  had  his  work  ever  been  brought  to 
their  attention.  In  each  of  the  two  parts  of  '  Promos 
and  Cassandra '  the  time  extends  over  several  days  ;  and 
in  the  second  part  the  place  in  one  instance  is  trans- 
ferred from  the  city,  in  which  the  scene  is  laid,  to  a 
goodly  distance  in  the  country.  One  further  comment 
is  to  be  made  upon  the  value  of  the  information  sup- 
posed to  be  contained  in  the  passage  which  has  just 
been  quoted.  When  so  much  of  our  early  drama  has 
perished,  it  is  hardly  proper  to  deny  the  veracity  of 
any  statement  made  about  it  by  a  writer  then  living. 
Still  we  may  be  permitted  to  doubt  whether  many,  if 
indeed  any,  plays  were  produced  which  correspond 
closely  to  the  description  here  given  of  the  way  in 
which,  and  the  extent  to  which,  the  unities  were 
violated.  It  seems  a  piece  of  rhetorical  exaggera- 
tion employed  to  emphasize  an  opinion  rather  than  a 
calm  statement  of  fact.  Ben  Jonson  in  a  similar 
manner  boasted  that  he  had  not  made  a  child  just 
born  at  the  beginning  of  a  play  become  a  graybeard 
at  its  end.1  No  dramas  corresponding  either  to  his 
or  to  Whetstone's  account  of  the  passage  of  time  have 
been  handed  down.  Perhaps  they  never  existed.  At 
any  rate,  it  will  not  do  to  take  this  sort  of  criticism 
too  literally.  During  the  eighteenth  century  Voltaire 
gave  his  readers  the  impression  that  about  twenty-five 
years  were  wont  to  elapse  between  the  beginning  and 
the  end  of  a  play  of  Shakespeare's.  He  repeated  the 
assertion  so  often  that  he  probably  came  at  last  to 
believe  it  himself;    and  certainly  his  disciples  among 

1  Prologue  to  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humor.' 
19 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

his  countrymen  had  no  suspicion  that  it  was  a  mere 
figment  of  his  own  imagination. 

But  a  far  greater  name  than  Whetstone  lent  its 
authority  to  this  kind  of  attack  upon  the  English 
stage.  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  'Apology  for  Poetry'  was 
not  published  until  1595,  nine  years  after  his  death ; 
but  the  date  of  its  composition  is  usually  ascribed 
to  1581.  It  could  not  have  been  later  than  1585, 
the  year  of  his  departure  to  the  war  in  which  he 
fell.  In  this  work  he  furnished  ample  evidence  of 
the  strength  of  the  hold  which  the  doctrine  of  the 
unities  had  taken  upon  the  men  of  the  critical  school 
to  which  he  belonged.  Language  is  hardly  con- 
temptuous enough  for  Sidney  to  express  his  scorn 
for  the  neglect  then  prevailing  upon  the  English 
stage  of  what  he  deemed  the  decencies  of  time  and 
place.  There  is  no  hesitation  in  his  utterance,  no 
hint  of  uncertainty  that  he,  and  those  who  thought 
with  him  were  not  the  people,  and  that  wisdom 
should  die  with  them.  He  first  praised  '  Gorboduc ' 
as  a  noble  play,  which  as  it  was  in  part  the  work 
of  a  noble  lord,  he  was  in  all  courtesy  bound  to  do. 
"  Yet  in  truth,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "  it  is  very  de- 
fectious  in  the  circumstances ;  which  grieveth  me,  be- 
cause it  might  not  remain  as  an  exact  model  of  all 
tragedies.  For  it  is  faulty  both  in  place  and  time, 
the  two  necessary  companions  of  all  corporal  actions. 
For  where  the  stage  should  always  represent  but  one 
place,  and  the  uttermost  time  presupposed  in  it  should 
be,  both  by  Aristotle's  precept  and  common  reason, 
but    one    day ;    there    is    both   many   days   and   many 

20 


THE  DRAMATIC    UNITIES 

places  inartificially  imagined.  But  if  it  be  so  in 
Gorboduc,  how  much  more  in  all  the  rest,  where  you 
shall  have  Asia  of  the  one  side  and  Afric  of  the 
other,  and  so  many  other  under-kingdoms  that  the 
player,  when  he  cometh  in,  must  ever  begin  with  tell- 
ing where  he  is ;  or  else  the  tale  will  not  be  con- 
ceived. Now  ye  shall  have  three  ladies  walk  to 
gather  flowers,  and  then  we  must  believe  the  stage 
to  be  a  garden.  By  and  by  we  hear  news  of  ship- 
wreck in  the  same  place,  and  then  we  are  to  blame 
if  we  accept  it  not  for  a  rock.  Upon  the  back  of 
that  comes  out  a  hideous  monster  with  fire  and  smoke, 
and  then  the  miserable  beholders  are  bound  to  take 
it  for  a  cave.  While  in  the  mean  time  two  armies 
fly  in,  represented  with  four  swords  and  bucklers,  and 
then  what  hard  heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a  pitched 
field?" 

This  passage  from  Sidney  is  particularly  interesting 
because  it  shows  with  what  difficulties  the  earl}-  drama- 
tist had  to  contend  in  designating  place  in  a  period 
when  movable  scenery  was  unknown.  Still  Sidney  is 
just  as  earnest  on  the  subject  of  time,  in  which  the 
presence  or  absence  of  movable  scenery  is  rarely  a  mat- 
ter to  be  much  considered,  so  far  as  concerns  compre- 
hension. He  made  it  a  point  of  special  ridicule  that  a 
play  should  open  with  two  persons  falling  in  love  with 
each  other,  and  end  in  the  space  of  two  hours  with 
the  marriage  of  their  child,  including  of  course  numer- 
ous adventures  that  had  taken  place  between  birth  and 
maturity:  "which,"  was  his  comment,  "how  absurd  it 
is  in  sense,  even  sense  may  imagine,  and  art  hath  taught 

21 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

and  all  ancient  examples  justified."  If  we  did  not  know 
that  these  words  were  written  before  Shakespeare  made 
his  appearance  as  a  dramatist,  we  might  almost  fancy 
that  the  latter  was  the  very  writer  Sidney  had  in  view ; 
for  what  the  one  described  as  absurd  bears  a  reasonably 
close  resemblance  to  what  is  represented  as  taking  place 
in  '  The  Winter's  Tale '  of  the  other. 

Opinions  such  as  these  which  have  been  quoted  would 
hardly  have  been  expressed,  had  not  controversial  dis- 
cussion preceded  their  utterance.  It  is  manifest  that 
at  this  early  period  the  thoughts  of  men  had  been 
directed  to  the  question  of  the  unities.  A  party  cer- 
tainly existed  then  in  England  which  recognized  and 
loudly  proclaimed  the  obligation  of  their  observance. 
Probably  it  was  not  large  in  numbers  ;  it  was  certainly 
feeble  in  influence.  It  did  not  affect  appreciably  the 
action  of  the  great  body  of  playwrights.  The  prominent 
earlier  dramatists,  Lyly,  Greene,  Peele,  and  Marlowe,  — 
university  graduates  though  they  were,  —  paid  no  heed 
to  this  doctrine.  The  disregard  of  the  unities  which 
they  displayed  could  hardly  have  been  owing  in  all 
cases  to  ignorance.  At  any  rate,  in  so  doing  they  fol- 
lowed the  general  practice  of  their  time.  The  situation 
was  materially  changed,  however,  when  Ben  Jonson 
threw  the  weight  of  his  name  in  favor  of  the  observance 
of  these  rules.  Several  things  contributed  to  the  in- 
fluence he  exerted.  He  was  a  scholar  as  well  as  a 
dramatist,  and  great  learning  often  overawes  contem- 
poraries more  than  great  talents,  and  sometimes  even 
more  than  great  genius.  But  talents  and  genius  Jon- 
son had  in  addition  to  his  learning-.     During-  the  latter 

22 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

half  of  his  life,  down  even  to  his  very  death  in  1637,  he 
was  the  literary  autocrat  of  his  time.  Both  his  influence 
and  his  unpopularity  were  augmented  by  the  peculiari- 
ties of  his  character.  In  particular,  besides  his  purely 
intellectual  qualities,  he  had  to  a  pronounced  degree 
that  pugnacity  of  disposition  which  in  the  case  of  many 
serves  as  an  ample  equivalent  for  actual  ability,  and  as 
regards  success  in  life  frequently  more  than  takes  its 
place. 

I  am  not  forgetting  the  fact  that  long  before  the 
period  of  which  we  are  now  speaking,  plays  had  ap- 
peared in  which  the  unities  are  fully  observed.  There 
are  indeed  certain  subjects,  or  certain  ways  of  treating 
a  subject,  which  may  be  said  to  exact  this  course.  The 
plot  of  '  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,'  produced  full  thirty 
years  before.  Jonson  had  written  a  word  on  this  particu- 
lar matter,  almost  compels  the  action  to  take  place,  as 
it  does  take  place,  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours ;  just  as 
the  plot  of  Randolph's  '  Muses'  Looking-Glass,'  pro- 
duced more  than  thirty  years  after  Jonson  began  his 
propaganda,  absolutel}'  requires  that  the  time  of  action 
shall  be  no  longer  than  the  time  of  representation. 
These  are  both  plays  which  by  the  very  nature  of  their 
being  are  obliged  to  observe  the  unities.  Furthermore, 
before  this  same  period  there  was  a  school  of  writers 
for  the  stage  who  in  comedy  professed  to  follow  the 
practice  of  the  ancients  and  in  tragedy  took  as  their 
model  the  dramas  attributed  to  Seneca.  In  the  latter 
pieces  the  chorus  was  retained  after  a  fashion,  mono- 
logue prevailed,  and  deference  was  paid  to  the  unities, 
though  they  were  not  in  all   cases  exactly  observed. 

23 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

But  the  influence  of  the  writers  of  these  productions 
was  neither  extensive  nor  lasting.  The  plays  they 
produced  were  academic  exercises  rather  than  dramas. 
They  are  the  outcome  of  the  scholarly,  or  it  would  be 
better  to  say,  the  pedantic  spirit,  as  opposed  to  the 
popular,  or  again  it  would  be  better  to  say,  the  national 
spirit.  However  much  tragedies  of  this  sort  came  to 
flourish  elsewhere,  they  had  in  England  only  the  sickly 
growth  of  an  exotic,  transplanted  to  an  unsuitable  soil 
and  an  ungenial  clime. 

Among  the  writers  of  this  school  were  numbered 
some  persons  of  scholarly  attainments  and  one  or  two 
men  of  genius.  Spenser  pretty  certainly  belonged  to  it, 
though  the  comedies  he  produced  have  been  lost,  prob- 
ably with  little  loss  to  his  reputation.  But  the  only 
name  of  eminence  connected  with  it,  whose  work  sur- 
vives, is  that  of  Daniel.  It  is  significant  of  the  immense 
sweep  and  force  of  the  national  movement  which  turned 
most  literary  activity  in  the  direction  of  the  drama,  that 
it  inspired  or  rather  forced  this  poet  to  attempt  a  kind 
of  writing  for  which  he  was  totally  unfitted.  His  two 
tragedies  have  the  title  and  external  form  of  dramas : 
they  are  really  little  more  than  discourses  in  the  form 
of  question  and  answer,  with  the  questions  very  short 
and  the  answers  very  long.  The  first  of  these  was 
'  Cleopatra,'  printed  in  1594.  It  is  patterned  upon 
that  depressing  Senecan  model,  in  which  everybody 
talks  a  good  deal  and  nobody  does  anything  at  all. 
It  is  mostly  written  in  quatrains,  and  consists  largely 
of  long  speeches.  The  only  ostensible  reason  for  any 
one  to  ask  a  question  is  to  furnish  the  one  questioned 

24 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

■with  an  opportunity  of  setting  off  on  tlie  production  of 
another  long  series  of  quatrains.  The  piece  was  never 
acted ;  it  hardly  seems  as  if  an  English  audience  of  any 
period  could  have  endured  its  well-sustained  tedious- 
ness.  In  it  the  unities  are  observed,  though  here, 
as  frequently,  exists  that  vagueness  which  arises  from 
nothing  ever  beinef  said  about  the  time  at  all.  Daniel's 
second  tragedy,  '  Philotas,'  which  appeared  in  1605, 
is,  as  a  drama,  a  distinct  improvement.  The  dia- 
logue is  wearisome,  to  be  sure,  but  it  does  not  always 
degenerate  into  monologue,  and  its  quatrains  are  occa- 
sionally relieved  by  blank  verse.  But  it  fails  unexpec- 
tedly in  what  the  classicists  would  have  deemed  its  most 
important  feature.  In  the  very  middle  of  the  third  act 
three  days  avowedly  elapse.  The  age  had  been  too  much 
for  the  poet.  ■ 

But  none  of  this  class  of  writers  had  any  real  influ- 
ence over  the  practice,  and  possibly  not  over  the  belief 
of  their  contemporaries.  It  was  quite  different  with 
Jonson.  He  plays,  in  fact,  so  important  a  part  in  the 
early  history  of  the  doctrine  of  the  unities  in  connec- 
tion with  the  English  stage,  that  it  becomes  a  matter 
of  consequence  to  determine  his  precise  attitude.  It 
is  not  an  altogether  easy  task.  Especially  is  it  dif- 
ficult to  ascertain  it  at  the  outset  of  his  career.  One 
indeed  gets  the  impression  that  his  views  were  for  a 
time  unsettled ;  at  least  that  they  had  nothing  of  the 
positiveness  which  he  came  later  to  feel.  Certainly  his 
practice  at  first  was  far  from  indicating  rigid  obedience 
to  these  rules.  One  play  of  his  — '  The  Case  is  Altered ' 
—  was  not  admitted  into  the  collection  of  his  works 

25 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

brought  out  under  his  own  supervision  in  1616.  Yet 
it  was  written  as  early  as  1599,  in  which  year  there  is 
a  distinct  reference  to  it  by  Nash.  In  this  comedy  the 
time  of  the  action  extends  over  several  weeks,  if  not 
months,  and  the  unity  of  place  is  very  far  from  being 
strictly  observed.  But  besides  this  play,  which  has 
come  down  to  us,  there  are  others  of  his  which  have 
perished.  By  Meres  in  1598  Jonson  is  mentioned 
among  the  writers  who  are  best  for  tragedy.  But 
no  tragedy  of  his  produced  as  early  as  that  year  sur- 
vives. Between  December,  1597,  and  June,  1602,  the 
manager  Henslowe  records  the  payment  of  various  sums 
for  six  plays  which  Jonson  was  concerned  in  preparing 
for  the  Lord  Admiral's  company.  They  were  written 
either  singly  or  in  conjunction  with  others.1  Not  one  of 
these  has  been  preserved.  Nor  is  it  impossible  that  he 
was  producing  at  the  same  period  pieces  for  other 
companies.  Whether  he  was  unable  or  unwilling  to 
include  any  of  these  in  his  own  collection  we  have  no 
means  of  ascertaining.  Yet  it  is  no  improbable  sup- 
position that  he  did  not  care  to  be  held  responsible 
for  them,  simply  because  they  violated  the  doctrine  of 
the  unities  of  which  he  had  come  to  be  the  declared 
champion.  This  is  an  impression  which  is  made  by 
his  failure  to  include  '  The  Case  is  Altered.'  It  was 
a  play  of  which  he  had  no  reason  to  be  ashamed;  yet 
not  only  did  he  omit  it  from  the  folio  edition  of  his 
works,  but  he  seems  to  have  had  no  concern  with  its 
publication  in  quarto  in  1609. 

1  See  Henslowe's  Diary,  under  dates  of  Dec.  3,  1597,  Aug.  18,  1598, 
Oct.  23,  1598,  Aug.  10, 1599,  Sept.  2,  1599,  and  June  24, 1G02. 

26 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

At  any  rate,  whatever  his  practice  may  have  been 
originally,  it  is  clear  that,  while  still  comparatively 
young,  Jonson  had  begun  to  look  upon  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  unities  as  essential  to  the  proper  con- 
struction of  the  drama.  Not  only  did  he  govern  his 
own  conduct  accordingly,  but  he  set  out  by  precept 
as  well  as  example  to  reform  the  English  stage.  The 
first  of  the  plays  included  by  him  in  the  folio  of  1616 
was  the  one  entitled  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humor.' 
In  that  volume  it  is  seen  in  its  revised  form ;  in  its 
original  form  it  had  been  published  in  quarto  in  1601. 
In  both  versions  the  unities  of  time  and  place  are 
observed.  The  play  was  first  acted,  as  Jonson  tells 
us  himself,  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants  in 
1598,  and  there  is  a  contemporary  reference  to  a  per- 
formance of  .it  in  a  letter  of  September  20  of  that 
same  year.1  As  found  in  the  folio  of  1616  it  is  pre- 
ceded by  a  prologue    in    which   the   author   criticised 

1  Letter  of  Tobie  Matthew  to  Dudley  Carleton,  dated  September 
20,  in  Calendar  of  State  Papers,  Domestic  Series,  1598-1601,  p.  97. 
This  date  disposes  of  the  theory  that  Jonson  had  fallen  out  with  the 
Lord  Admiral's  company,  in  consequence  of  his  killing  one  of  its 
actors  in  a  duel,  and  had  on  that  account  transferred  his  services  to 
the  Lord  Chamberlain's  company.  Jonson's  own  statement  that  the 
play  was  first  acted  in  1598  is  confirmed  by  the  letter-writer  who 
speaks  of  it  as  "a  new  play."  This  date  for  its  first  production  would 
never  have  been  seriously  controverted,  had  not  Gifford  found  the 
selection  of  another  year  essential  to  the  support  of  the  view  he  was 
advocating.  He  therefore  not  only  followed  Malone's  conjecture  that 
the  '  Umers '  of  Henslowe's  Diary  was  perhaps  Jonson's  play,  but 
assumed  that  there  was  no  doubt  of  it.  His  fictitious  date  of  1596 
has  ever  since  been  treated  with  a  respect  to  which  it  never  had  the 
slightest  claim.  Gifford  was  utterly  unscrupulous  in  his  assertions 
when  he  thought  a  view  of  his  needed  bolstering.  He  first  stated 
something  as  probable,  and  then  proceeded  to  argue  from  it  as  certain. 

27 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

the  evil  practices  of  composition  then  prevalent.  The 
disregard  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place  naturally 
received  attention.  The  date  of  the  composition  of 
this  prologue  is  unknown;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
it  was  never  spoken  when  the  piece  was  first  acted. 
There  Avas  little  limit,  indeed,  to  Jonson's  self-asser- 
tion and  arrogance.  Still  he  was  not  likely  at  the 
beginning  of  his  career  to  put  in  the  mouth  of  an 
actor  of  the  company  performing  his  play  a  criticism 
of  the  pieces  they  were  in  the  habit  of  bringing  out. 
But  the  prologue  undoubtedly  represented  the  feel- 
ings which  he  was  then  coming  to  entertain,  and 
which  later  he  took  frequent  pains  to  express.  That 
portion  of  it  which  refers  to  the  unity  of  time  is 
comprised  in  the  following  words  :  — 

"  Though  need  make  many  poets,  and  some  such 
As  art  and  nature  have  not  bettered  much  : 
Yet  ours  for  want  hath  not  so  loved  the  stage, 
As  he  dare  serve  the  ill  customs  of  the  age, 
Or  purchase  your  delight  at  such  a  rate, 
As  for  it  he  himself  must  justly  hate  : 
To  make  a  child,  now  swaddled,  to  proceed 
Man,  and  then  shoot  up  in  one  beard  and  weed 
Past  threescore  years  ;  or  with  three  rusty  swords, 
And  help  of  some  few  foot-and-half-foot  words, 
Fight  over  York  and  Lancaster's  long  jars, 
And  in  the  tyring-house  bring  wounds  to  scars." 

The  unity  of  place  is  referred  to  further  on  in  a  line 
in  which  he  assures  the  audience  that  the  chorus  shall 
not  waft  them  over  the  seas. 

The  unities  are  not  so  rigorously  observed   in   the 
second  comedy  which  appeared  in  this  collection.     It 

28 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

was  entitled  '  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor,'  and 
was  brought  out  the  year  following  the  production  of 
the  preceding  play.  In  it,  as  printed,  Jonson  not  only 
supplied  the  text  of  the  comedy,  but  set  out  to  save 
the  reader  the  trouble  of  criticising  it  by  furnishing  a 
running'  comment  for  his  benefit.  This  work  is  in- 
trusted  to  two  characters  called  Mitis  and  Cordatus. 
The  business  of  the  former,  as  indeed  his  name  sug- 
gests, is  to  raise  feeble  objections  and  to  subside  meekly 
the  moment  they  are  controverted.  In  all  cases  they 
are  brushed  aside  instantly  and  almost  contemptuously 
by  the  strong-minded  Cordatus.  He,  as  the  author's 
friend,  shows  how  silly  and  frivolous  must  be  those 
who  presume  to  find  fault  with  anything  which  has 
been  done.  In  the  course  of  the  dialogue  between 
the  two,  which  is  entirely  independent  of  the  play 
itself,  there  occurs,  among  other  things,  a  discussion 
about  the  unity  of  time  and  of  place.  This  has  an 
interest  of  its  own,  for  the  light  it  throws  upon  Jon- 
son's  opinions  at  that  particular  date.  It  had  then 
evidently  dawned  upon  his  mind  that  as  there  had 
been  an  advance  in  the  development  of  the  drama 
among  the  ancients  themselves,  there  might  be  an 
advance  also  after  the  time  of  the  ancients.  In  the 
dialogue  upon  this  subject  Mitis  insists  that  the  whole 
argument  of  the  play  must  fall  within  the  compass  of 
a  day's  business.  The  necessity  of  this  Cordatus  de- 
nies. He  points  out  how  in  various  ways  the  privi- 
leges of  comedy  had  been  enlarged  from  time  to  time 
by  the  Greek  and  Roman  playwrights.  "I  see  not," 
he  adds,  "  but  we  should  enjoy  the  same  license  and 

29 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

free  power  to  illustrate  and  heighten  our  inventions 
as  they  did ;  and  not  to  be  tied  to  their  strict  and 
regular  forms  which  the  niceness  of  a  few,  who  are 
nothing  but  form,  would  thrust  upon  us." 

These  words  reveal  to  us  the  existence  at  that  time 
of  a  class  of  critics  who  sought  to  restrain  the  liberty 
of  the  playwright  by  rules  of  severest  strictness.  With 
these  sticklers  for  regularity,  as  it  was  afterwards  styled, 
Jonson  did  not  sympathize,  at  least  then.  He  says  of 
them  somewhat  contemptuously,  that  they  are  nothing 
but  form  ;  we  hardly  need  his  testimony  that  they  must 
have  been  few  in  number.  It  is  indeed  noteworthy  that 
Jonson,  while  a  believer  in  the  doctrine  of  the  unities, 
ranges  himself  at  this  period  distinctly  upon  the  side 
of  those  who  give  to  its  requirements  a  liberal  inter- 
pretation. This  he  does  in  practice  as  well  as  precept. 
The  time  of  this  particular  play  is  not  clearly  defined. 
It  is  apparently  rather  more  than  a  day  and  a  half; 
though  things  are  performed  in  it  which  in  real  life 
would  have  occupied  several  days.  There  is  something 
of  the  same  latitude  shown  in  the  matter  of  place.  The 
scene  announced  as  the  Fortunate  Island  is  actually 
London  and  its  vicinity.  In  the  course  of  the  play 
it  shifts  from  the  country  to  the  city,  from  the  city 
to  the  court,  and  again  from  the  court  to  the  city. 
A  passage  in  the  dialogue  between  Mitis  and  Cordatus 
is  here  worth  quoting  in  full,  partly  because  it  shows 
the  extent  of  the  privilege  which  Jonson  was  then 
willing  to  accord  the  playwright,  but  also  because  it 
is  the  first  statement  in  our  tongue  of  the  assumed 
incapacity  of    the   auditor  to   comprehend    change   of 

30 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

scene.  This  was  subsequently  to  be  echoed  and  re- 
echoed for  centuries  by  the  advocates  of  the  unity 
of  place.     The  words  are  as  follows:  — 

"  Mitis.   What 's  his  scene  ? 

Cordatus.    Marry,  Insula  Fortunata,  sir. 

Mitis.  Oh,  the  Fortunate  Island ;  mass,  he  has  bound 
himself  to  a  strict  law  there. 

Cordatus.   Why  so  ? 

Mitis.  He  cannot  lightly  alter  the  scene  without  cross- 
ing the  seas. 

Cordatus.  He  needs  not,  having  a  whole  island  to  run 
through,  I  think. 

Mitis.  No  !  how  comes  it  then,  that  in  some  one  play  we 
see  so  many  seas,  countries  and  kingdoms  passed  over  with 
such  admirable  dexterity  ? 

Cordatus.  0,  that  but  shows  how  well  the  authors  can 
travel  in  their  vocation,  and  outrun  the  apprehension  of 
their  auditory." 

The  sea,  it  will  be  observed,  was  an  insurmountable 
barrier ;  to  cross  it  was  license,  not  liberty. 

In  another  class  of  productions  Jonson  went  much 
farther  than  in  this  comedy  as  regards  the  freedom 
given  to  the  dramatist.  When  a  few  years  later  he 
came  to  write  his  tragedy  of  'Sejanus,'  he  gave  up 
all  thought  of  adhering  to  the  unity  of  time.  He 
acknowledged  it  in  his  address  to  the  reader.  It  was 
impossible  on  the  modern  stage  to  conform  to  the 
practice  of  the  ancients  and  at  the  same  time  interest 
a  modern  audience.  "  If  it  be  objected,"  he  wrote, 
"that  what  I  publish  is  no  true  poem  in  the  strict 
laws  of  time,  I  confess  it ;  as  also  in  the  want  of  a 
proper  chorus,  whose   habit  and  moods  are  such  and 

31 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

so  difficult,  as  not  any  whom  I  have  seen,  since  the 
ancients,  no,  not  they  who  have  most  presently  affected 
laws,  have  yet  come  in  the  way  of."  Two  things  are 
brought  out  distinctly  by  this  remark.  One  is  the 
existence  at  that  time  of  a  body  of  men  who,  to  use 
Jonson's  phrase,  affected  laws.  The  other  is  that  in 
his  opinion  there  was  no  hope  of  success  for  him  who 
strove  to  revive  the  practices  and  customs  of  the  past. 
"Nor  is  it  needful,"  he  continued,  "or  almost  pos- 
sible in  these  our  times,  and  to  such  auditors  as  com- 
monly things  are  presented,  to  observe  the  old  state 
and  splendor  of  dramatic  poems  with  preservation  of 
any  popular  delight."  This  was  Jonson's  position  when 
'  Sejanus '  was  published  in  1605.  Nor  does  it  seem 
to  have  undergone  any  change  when  six  years  later  he 
brought  out  the  tragedy  of  '  Catiline.'  In  that  not 
only  is  the  unity  of  time  disregarded  but  also  the  unity 
of  place.  The  same  state  of  things  would  also  have  been 
true  of  the  unfinished  '  Fall  of  Mortimer,'  the  last  work 
that  came  from  his  pen,  if  we  can  trust  the  argument 
prefixed  to  the  fragment  that  has  been  preserved. 

But,  after  all,  these  instances  are  exceptional.  It  was 
comedy  to  which  Jonson  devoted  his  main  attention ; 
and  comedy  he  held  down  unflinchingly  to  the  require- 
ments of  time  and  place.  His  course  of  conduct  follows, 
too,  the  common  experience  of  men.  When  he  re- 
published in  the  folio  of  1616  the  play  of  '  Every 
Man  out  of  his  Humor,'  he  allowed  the  remarks  about 
the  unities  to  stand  as  they  appeared  in  the  quarto  of 
1600.  His  opinions  in  theory  were  the  same  as  before  ; 
but  his  later  practice,  for  a  while  at  least,  became  much 

32 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

more  rigid.  There  is  always  a  tendency  to  make  restric- 
tions voluntarily  adopted  into  one's  creed  much  more 
strict.  An  artificial  regularity,  the  assumed  beauty  of 
which  consists  in  its  regularity,  recommends  itself  more 
and  more  to  the  favor  of  those  who  admire  it,  the  more 
closely  its  lines  are  drawn.  Jonson,  who  in  his  comedy 
of  '  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor '  was  theoretically 
willing  to  give  his  characters  a  whole  island  to  disport 
in,  and  found  practically  that  he  had  sufficiently  satis- 
fied the  requirements  of  time  and  place  in  varying 
his  scenes  between  the  country,  the  court,  and  different 
parts  of  the  city,  soon  began  to  manifest  a  disposition 
to  subject  himself  to  much  more  rigorous  limitations 
of  these  laws.  His  three  greatest  works  are  usually 
reckoned  * Volpone,  or  the  Fox,'  'Epicene,  or  the  Silent 
Woman,'  and  '  The  Alchemist,'  brought  out  respec- 
tively in  1605,  1609  and  1610.  The  first  is  well  within 
the  rules,  but  the  latitude  employed  in  it  is  altogether 
restricted  in  the  case  of  the  second  and  third.  In  l  The 
Silent  Woman  '  the  time  of  the  action  is  hardly  more 
than  that  of  the  representation,  and  the  change  of  place 
does  not  extend  farther  than  the  opposite  side  of  the 
same  street.  Even  this  is  surpassed  by  'The  Alche- 
mist.' There  the  scene  is  confined  to  one  house  and 
the  space  immediately  in  front  of  it,  while  the  time 
is  no  longer  than  that  required  to  perform  the  play. 
In  his  subsequent  productions  Jonson  did  not  conform 
to  requirements  so  severe  ;  but  the  ones  just  mentioned 
exhibit  the  ideal  which  he  had  in  mind. 

Nor,  as  we  have  seen,  was  he  satisfied  with  enforcing 
the  doctrine  of  the  unities  by  his  practice.     In  season 
3  33 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

and  out  of  season  he  proclaimed  its  binding  force.  His 
position  as  its  great  expounder  and  champion  was  recog- 
nized by  his  contemporaries.  In  the  commendatory 
verses  which  Beaumont  wrote  upon  the  play  of  '  The 
Fox,'  that  dramatist  bears  testimony  to  his  friend's 
knowledge  of 

"  The  art,  which  thou  alone 
Hast  taught  our  tongue,  the  rules  of  time,  of  place." 

It  was  Jonson  alone,  it  is  to  be  observed,  who  had 
brought  back  to  the  English  stage  the  simplicity  and 
perfection  of  the  ancients.  To  the  same  effect  speaks 
Selden  in  some  Latin  verses  addressed  to  the  poet 
on  his  plays.  Jonson  himself  proudly  assumed  the 
distinction.  In  his  recommendatory  verses  to  'The 
Northern  Lass '  of  Brome,  published  in  1632,  he 
plumed  himself  upon  it.  He  praised  his  old  servant, 
now  turned  playwright,  for  the  skill  he  had  displayed 
in  writing  for  the  stage,  and  the  favor  he  had  justly 
gained  in  so  doing, 

"  By  observation  of  those  comic  laws 
Which  I,  your  master,  first  did  teach  the  age." 

Praise  of  the  same  sort  followed  Jonson  when  he  was 
laid  in  his  grave.  It  by  no  means  limited  itself  indeed 
to  his  advocacy  of  the  unities.  The  volume  of  com- 
mendatory verses  to  his  memory,  published  the  year 
after  his  death,  contains  several  tributes  to  the  various 
efforts  he  had  put  forth  to  purify  the  theatre  from  the 
ill  practices  of  all  kinds  which  he  had  found  prevalent 
when  he  came  to  write  for  it.  Cleveland  spoke  of  him 
as  the  one  "  who  first  reformed  our  stage  with  justest 

34 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

laws."  To  the  same  effect,  but  with  more  detail,  wrote 
Jasper  Mayne.  He  commended  Jonson's  scene  as  being 
free  from  monsters.  No  deity  was  called  in  to  loose 
the  knot  of  improbabilities  in  which  the  action  of  the 
play  was  involved.  His  regard  for  the  unity  of  place 
and  his  avoidance  of  the  tumultuous  scenes  of  the  ro- 
mantic drama  were  further  indicated  in  the  following 
lines :  — 

"  The  stage  was  still  a  stage,  two  entrances 
Were  not  two  parts  of  the  world  disjoined  by  seas. 
Thine  were  land-tragedies  ;  no  prince  was  found 
To  swim  a  whole  scene  out,  then  o*  the  stage  drowned ; 
Pitched  fields,  as  Red  Bull  wars,  still  telt  thy  doom ; 
Thou  laidst  no  sieges  to  the  music  room." 

Owen  Feltham  poured  himself  forth  in  a  similar  strain. 
To  the  observation  that  with  the  career  and  death  of 
Shakespeare,  of  Beaumont,  and  finally  of  Jonson,  the 
stage  had  witnessed  both  her  glory  and  decay,  he  added 
this  declaration  of  the  influence  which  the  last-mentioned 
dramatist  had  exerted  :  — 

"Whose  judgment  was  't  refined  it?  or  who 
Gave  laws  by  which  hereafter  all  must  go, 
But  solid  Jonson?" 

Too  much  stress  need  not  be  put  upon  the  exact  accu- 
racy of  complimentary  phrases  paid  to  a  dead  man  whom, 
now  that  he  was  out  of  the  reach  of  either  praise  or  cen- 
sure, all  could  unite  in  honoring.  Still,  there  is  no  mis- 
taking the  meaning  of  the  opinion  generally  entertained 
about  him  both  while  he  was  living  and  after  his  death. 
Respect  could  never  have  failed  to  be  paid  to  the  lofty 
conception  he  had  of  the  poet's  mission,  and  to  his  un- 

35 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

flinching  determination  not  to  allow  his  necessities  to 
drag  him  into  doing  anything  unbecoming  the  art  he 
professed.  Even  those  who  did  not  accept  his  judg- 
ment and  were  offended  at  his  arrogance  must  have 
admired  the  independence  of  his  spirit.  He  represented 
worthily  his  side  of  the  controversy  which  went  on 
then  between  classicism  and  romanticism.  Men  at  that 
time,  as  later,  belonged  consciously  or  unconsciously  to 
the  one  party  or  the  other.  They  did  not  dignify  their 
differences  by  the  assumption  of  titles ;  none  the  less  did 
the  realities  exist.  It  is  clear  in  the  history  of  the  early 
drama  that  Jonson  was  to  his  contemporaries  as  dis- 
tinctly the  protagonist  of  what  we  now  call  the  classical 
school  as  Shakespeare  has  been  to  all  succeeding  times 
the  protagonist  of  the  romantic. 


36 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 
II 

Jonson  in  the  course  of  time  became  the  literary- 
autocrat  of  his  age.  He  was  disliked  by  many;  but 
there  was  no  one  to  dispute  his  supremacy.  As  he 
was  conspicuously  identified  with  the  cause  of  the 
unities,  it  was  inevitable  that  his  advocacy  of  it  and 
his  example  should  affect  in  some  measure  the  belief 
and  practice  of  his  contemporaries.  The  extent  of  the 
influence  he  exerted  in  enforcing  the  obligation  of 
observing  the  doctrine  he  championed  has  never  been 
accurately  determined.  To  ascertain  it  precisely  would 
require  an  exhaustive  examination,  with  reference  to 
this  particular  point,  of  the  extant  dramatic  production 
of  the  seventeenth  century  down  to  the  closing  of  the 
theatres  in  1G42.  A  somewhat  superficial  examination 
leads  to  the  impression  that  the  obedience  paid  to  the 
rules  he  proclaimed  was  exceptional  rather  than  general. 
A  theoretical  assent  was  perhaps  given  to  their  require- 
ments, and  respect  professed  for  them  as  exhibiting  the 
only  correct  method  of  stage  composition.  Bnt  in 
actual  practice  Jonson's  example  found  few  imitators 
outside  of  that  circle  of  younger  writers  who  in  his 
latter  days  recognized  him  as  their  master.  He  him- 
self was  apparently  not  able  to  influence  the  action  of 

37 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

those  in  conjunction  with  whom  he  wrote.  The  comedy 
of  '  Eastward  Ho '  carried  on  its  title-page,  when 
printed  in  1605,  the  names  of  Chapman,  Jonson,  and 
Marston  as  its  authors.  Jonson's  part  in  the  produc- 
tion of  this  piece  has  been  frequently  declared  to  be 
slight.  It  is  an  assertion  that  can  be  safely  made,  as 
no  evidence  exists  either  to  confirm  or  to  confute  it. 
But  whether  he  shared  much  or  little  in  its  composition, 
he  shared  in  the  punishment  inflicted  upon  its  com- 
posers. Yet  in  this  very  play  for  which  he  suffered 
imprisonment,  it  is  noticeable  that  neither  the  unity 
of  time  nor  of  place  is  observed. 

Still  there  is  no  doubt  that  his  teachings  bore  fruit, 
and  to  some  extent  speedily.  Even  early  in  the 
seventeenth  century  the  preservation  of  the  unities  was 
an  ideal  which  certain  of  the  writers  for  the  stage  had 
come  to  cherish,  and  there  is  little  question  that  in 
most  cases  this  came  to  pass  through  his  influence.  Its 
actual  achievement  was  regarded  as  something  redound- 
ing to  the  credit  of  the  author.  At  least  that  was  the 
assumption  on  his  own  part.  There  was,  for  instance, 
published  in  1611  a  lively,  bustling,  coarse  comedy 
entitled  '  Ram  Alley  or  Merry  Tricks.'  It  was  the 
work  of  a  certain  Lodowick  Barry,  who  only  exists 
for  us  as  its  author.  In  this  play  the  unities  of  time 
and  place  are  strictly  regarded.  The  writer  prided 
himself  upon  the  fact.  In  his  prologue  he  spoke  of 
himself  as 

"  Observing  all  those  ancient  streams, 
Which  from  the  Horse-foot  fount  do  flow, 
As  time,  place,  person." 
38 


THE  DRAMATIC    UNITIES 

In  truth,  not  merely  was  the  practice  affected  of  those 
who  looked  up  to  Jonson  as  their  leader,  but  occasion- 
ally that  of  his  opponents.  This  can  he  seen  in  the 
literary  duel  that  went  on  between  him  and  Dekker. 
In  1602  the  latter  produced  his  '  Histriomastix  or 
Player's  Scourge  '  as  a  reply  to  '  The  Poetaster '  of 
the  former.  In  it,  very  likely  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  and  probably  for  the  last  time,  Dekker  confined 
the  action  of  his  play  to  one  place  and  one  day. 

It  is  manifest,  however,  that  there  was  no  general 
assent  to  the  doctrine.  To  it,  from  the  outset,  there 
must  have  been  not  only  vigorous  but  successful  op- 
position. Few  of  the  great  names  connected  with  our 
early  drama  conformed  to  its  requirements  save  in 
occasional  instances.  Against  it  could  always  be  cited 
at  that  time,  as  in  later  days,  the  practice  of  Shake- 
speare, even  then  reckoned  by  the  multitude  as  the 
greatest  name  of  all.  Furthermore,  those  wrho  pre- 
tended to  observe  the  doctrine  observed  it  very  loosely. 
They  cast  a  certain  discredit  upon  it  by  the  latitude 
they  gave  to  place.  They  cast  upon  it  still  further 
discredit  by  enveloping  the  time  of  the  action  in  a 
vagueness  which  renders  its  precise  length  very  difficult 
to  ascertain  even  now  on  careful  reading,  and  must 
have  made  it  impossible  to  detect  in  representation. 
That  this  was  sometimes  done  intentionally  there  can 
hardly  be  any  question.  The  writer  sought  to  shelter 
himself  from  the  tyranny  of  laws  which  he  felt  he 
must  obey  by  shrouding  in  misty  language  the  period 
required  for  the  development  of  the  plot.  More  than 
this,  some  of  those  who  ranged  themselves  distinctly 

39 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

under  Jonson's  banner  failed  to  live  up  to  the  austerity 
of  his  precepts.  Brome,  his  old  servant,  tried,  for  in- 
stance, to  conform  to  his  doctrine  in  the  comedy  of 
'  The  Northern  Lass,'  and  succeeded  well  enough,  as 
we  have  seen,1  to  receive  commendation  for  it  from 
his  master.  Yet  in  a  play  which  speedily  followed  — 
'  The  Sparagus  Garden, '  brought  out  in  1635  —  the 
time  of  the  action,  though  much  wrapt  in  mystery, 
cannot  be  less  than  seven  days. 

It  was  not,  indeed,  until  after  the  Restoration  that 
conformity  to  the  doctrine  of  the  unities  came  to  be 
accepted  by  the  leading  playwrights  of  the  age  as  the 
only  correct  practice.  French  tastes  and  French  critical 
canons  had  come  in  with  Charles  II.  These  tastes  and 
these  canons  dominated  English  opinion  in  many  ways 
for  more  than  a  century;  but  nowhere  so  much  as  in 
the  theories  held  about  the  stage.  In  France  the  doc- 
trine of  the  unities  had  established  itself  triumphantly. 
All  opposition  to  it  had  been  crushed.  It  was  now 
about  to  extend  its  dominion  over  England.  Its  prog- 
ress there  was  assisted  by  the  authority  of  the  purely 
classical  school.  From  the  period  of  the  Renaissance 
there  has  always  been  a  body  of  critics  who  have  been 
disposed  to  look  upon  everything  produced  since  the 
fall  of  the  Roman  empire  as  partaking  somewhat  of  the 
nature  of  the  frivolous.  In  their  eyes  any  practice  of 
the  moderns  disagreeing  with  that  of  the  ancients  is 
objectionable;  or  if  not  strictly  objectionable,  it  is  of 
an  inferior  character.  These  men  are  to  be  found 
now;   but   they  were   far  more   numerous  one  or  two 

i  See  p.  34. 
40 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

hundred  years  ago.  To  them  everything  done  by  the 
Greeks  or  written  in  the  Greek  tongue  was  redolent 
of  the  odor  of  peculiar  sanctity.  All  the  influence 
they  exerted  was  naturally  given  to  the  support  of  the 
doctrine  of  the  unities;  and  among  them  are  to  be 
found  one  or  two  of  the  greatest  names  in  our  litera- 
ture. In  1671  Milton  published  his  tragedy  of  '  Sam- 
son Agonistes.'  In  it  he  added  the  weight  of  his 
authority  to  the  critical  views  that  were  then  begin- 
ning to  be  generally  accepted.  In  the  preface  to  his 
play  he  took  pains  to  censure  the  modern  stage  for 
several  things  which  are  now  regarded  as  redounding 
to  its  credit.  Naturally  the  matter  under  considera- 
tion did  not  escape  his  notice.  The  unities  he  sup- 
ported as  earnestly  as  if  he  were  a  member  of  the 
French  Academy.  "The  circumscription  of  time,"  are 
his  closing  words,  "wherein  the  whole  drama  begins  and 
ends,  is,  according  to  ancient  rule  and  best  example, 
within  the  space  of  twenty-four  hours." 

Not  but  that  after  the  Restoration  there  were  plenty 
of  dissenters  in  practice,  and  a  few  in  theory.  To  the 
former  state  of  things  both  previous  example  and  the 
natural  indolence  of  man  would  contribute.  There 
were  authors  who  had  little  reputation  to  gain  or  lose. 
These  did  not  care  to  burden  themselves  with  require- 
ments to  which  it  was  hard  to  conform,  and  for  which 
the  audiences  they  appealed  to  cared  little  or  nothing. 
They  knew,  too,  that  they  had  on  their  side  the  great 
writers  of  the  former  age  with  the  exception  of  Jonson ; 
and  Jonson,  who  observed  the  rules,  was  then  no  more 
popular  with  theatre-goers  than  Shakespeare,  who  dis- 

41 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

regarded  them,  and  much  less  so  than  Fletcher,  who 
observed  them  but  rarely.  But  no  indifference  of  this 
sort  prevailed  among  the  dramatists  who  were  daily 
rising  into  prominence  and  favor.  They  took  pains  to 
conform  to  what  was  called  regularity.  Dryden  bears 
witness  to  the  feelings  that  existed  on  the  part  both 
of  poet  and  of  public  in  his  comedy  of  '  Secret  Love 
or  the  Maiden  Queen.'  This  was  brought  out  in 
March,  1667.  In  the  prologue  he  boasted  of  it  as 
having  been  written  in  exact  conformity  to  the  rules. 
In  the  preface  to  the  published  play  he  added  similar 
testimony.  "I  would  tell  the  reader,"  he  said  of  it, 
"  that  it  is  regular  according  to  the  strictest  of  dramatic 
laws;  but  that  is  a  commendation  which  many  of  our 
poets  now  despise,  and  a  beauty  which  our  common 
audiences  do  not  easily  discern." 

This  feeling  about  the  necessity  of  observing  the 
unities  of  time  and  place  grew  steadily  from  the  period 
of  the  Restoration.  During  the  eighteenth  century 
it  increased  rather  than  diminished.  By  the  middle 
of  it  Voltaire  had  become  acknowledged  as  the  supreme 
literary  legislator  of  Europe.  His  attitude  towards 
Shakespeare,  and  the  English  attitude  towards  him  in 
consequence,  will  demand  a  treatise  of  its  own.  Here 
it  is  sufficient  to  observe  that  upon  the  propriety  of 
conforming  to  the  unities  his  opinions  were  of  the 
most  decided  character.  He  had  argued  vigorously  for 
their  observance  in  the  preface  to  the  edition  of  his 
(Edijje,  which  was  published  in  1730.  This  preface 
was  largely  an  answer  to  the  attack  of  La  Motte 
upon   the   unnaturalness  of   the   French   stage.      That 

42 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

writer  had  shocked  to  the  very  soul  the  feel- 
ings of  his  countrymen  by  asserting  that  tragedy 
could  properly  be  written  in  prose.  He  had  gone 
farther.  He  had  denied  the  binding  force  of  the 
unities,  and  pleaded  for  their  abolition.  Such  he- 
retical views  Voltaire  felt  called  upon  to  combat,  and, 
if  possible,  to  crush.  The  French,  he  claimed,  were 
the  first  to  revive  the  wise  rules  of  the  ancient  theatre. 
Other  nations  had  for  a  long  time  refused  to  submit 
to  the  restrictions  these  imposed;  but  as  the  laws  were 
just,  and  reason  must  finally  triumph,  they  too  had 
yielded.  "Even  in  England,"  he  continued,  "at  this 
day  authors  give  a  notice  at  the  beginning  of  their 
pieces,  that  the  time  employed  in  the  action  is  equal 
to  that  in  the  representation,  and  thus  go  farther  than 
ourselves  who  taught  them."  It  was  a  consequence 
that  those  ages,  in  which  the  practice  was  unknown  to 
the  greatest  geniuses  like  Shakespeare  and  Lope  de 
Vega,  were  beginning  to  be  looked  upon  as  barbarous. 
These  opinions  Voltaire  held  with  increasing  fervor  till 
the  day  of  his  death.  He  never  wavered  in  the  view 
expressed  in  his  letter  to  Lord  Bolingbroke  that  the 
fundamental  laws  of  the  theatre  were  the  three  unities. 
He  was  of  course  mistaken  —  on  matters  of  fact  he  was 
very  apt  to  be  mistaken  —  in  his  assertion  that  it  was  in 
France  that  the  doctrine  of  the  unities  had  originated, 
or  from  it  had  been  introduced  into  England.  But 
he  was  to  this  extent  right  that  it  was  the  French  influ- 
ence which  came  in  with  the  Restoration  that  converted 
into  positive  obligation  what  had  hitherto  been  deemed 
by  most  writers  merely  a  matter  of  choice. 

43 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

But  the  English  never  took  kindly  to  the  doctrine  of 
the  unities.  The  audience  cared  nothing  for  it:  the 
writers  for  the  stage,  while  generally  accepting  it,  while 
professing  to  regard  it  as  the  only  true  gospel,  invari- 
ably fretted  under  it.  It  was  with  them  a  belief  of  the 
intellect  rather  than  of  the  heart.  In  the  days  of  its 
greatest  vogue  this  doctrine  never  gained  in  England 
any  such  foothold  as  it  had  in  France.  Many  will  see 
in  this  little  more  than  a  characteristic  difference  be- 
tween the  two  nations,  —  one  submitting  impatiently  to 
any  restraint  which  hinders  the  freedom  of  its  move- 
ments, grumbling  at  laws  which  it  recognizes  the  pro- 
priety if  not  necessity  of  obeying;  the  other  not  only 
liking  to  be  governed,  but  liking  to  feel  itself  gov- 
erned. There  may  be  a  certain  amount  of  truth  in 
such  a  view.  But  it  will  hardly  do  to  accept  it  as  a 
full  explanation.  Experience  shows  that  in  literary 
fashions  there  are  few  practices  or  beliefs,  no  matter 
how  unimportant  or  unreasonable  in  themselves,  which 
any  people  under  proper  conditions  cannot  be  trained  to 
regard  as  of  greatest  moment.  No  better  illustration 
of  the  fact  can  be  found  in  the  dramatic  history  of  our 
own  tongue  than  the  attitude  once  taken  by  the  public 
towards  a  mere  accessory  of  stage  representation,  in 
itself  absolutely  unessential. 

In  general,  at  earlier  periods,  but  during  the  whole 
of  the  eighteenth  century  in  particular,  every  dramatic 
piece  produced  in  England  had  to  be  preceded  at  its  first 
appearance  by  a  prologue  and  followed  by  an  epilogue. 
It  was  not  a  matter  of  choice ;  it  was  one  of  necessity. 
The  greatest  play  ever  written,  composed  by  the  most 

U 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

popular  dramatist  that  ever  wrote,  would  hardly  have 
been  allowed,  unless  under  exceptional  conditions,  to  he 
brought  on  the  stage  without  these  accompaniments. 
Mrs.  Centlivre,  in  her  preface  to  the  comedy  of  '  The 
Perplexed  Lovers/  tells  us  of  the  resentment  expressed 
by  the  audience  because,  owing  to  circumstances,  there 
was  no  epilogue  the  first  night.  The  requirement  was 
often  felt  to  be  a  hardship;  and  the  freedom  of  the 
French  stage  from  the  obligation  was  many  times  re- 
marked upon  to  its  credit.  But  no  disposition  mani- 
fested itself  to  release  the  dramatic  author  from  this 
exaction.  These  pieces  were  eagerly  waited  for  by  the 
spectators.  -Later  they  were  regularly  printed  in  the 
periodicals  of  the  time.  They  were  sometimes  dis- 
cussed as  seriously  hy  the  critics  as  the  play  itself. 
Certain  writers  gained  a  special  reputation  by  their 
success  in  composing  them.  A  good  prologue  con- 
tributed directly  to  the  success  of  the  performance 
which  followed;  and  while  a  good  epilogue  could  not 
bring  about  a  result  which  had  already  taken  place,  it 
affected  to  some  extent  the  future  of  the  piece.  It 
served  to  send  the  audience  home  in  good  humor.  We 
are  told  that  Dr.  Francklin's  tragedy  of  '  The  Earl  of 
Warwick,'  produced  at  Drury  Lane  in  17G6,  would 
have  been  condemned  if  it  had  not  been  relieved  by 
a  most  admirable  epilogue  of  Garrick;1  and  the  asser- 
tion, whether  true  or  not,  bears  witness  to  the  popular 
belief.  These  appendages,  therefore,  in  themselves  of 
no  real  consequence,  and  having  no  bearing  upon  the 

1  Life  of  Francklin,  in  London  Magazine,  1784,  vol.  iii.  (enlarged 
6eries),  p.  179. 

45 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

merits  of  the  piece,  were  elevated  in  public  opinion  to 
matters  of  essential  importance.  The  custom  died  out 
in  time  because  there  was  no  real  justification  for  its 
living.  Still  it  continued  to  be  kept  up  long  after  the 
taste  which  demanded  it  had  disappeared.  When  in 
the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  manager 
of  one  of  the  London  theatres  ventured  to  put  a  play 
upon  the  stage  without  prologue  or  epilogue,  he  did  it 
with  fear  and  trembling,  and  was  agreeably  surprised 
to  find  that  their  omission  had  excited  no  attention 
whatever. 

Just  so  it  was  in  France  with  the  doctrine  of  the 
unities,  only  much  more  so.  The  public  was  trained  to 
regard  the  observance  of  these  rules  as  a  matter  of 
vital  importance.  No  variation  from  them,  no  modifica- 
tion of  their  restrictions  was  allowed.  To  demand  con- 
formity to  their  requirements  became  so  much  a  French 
critical  practice  that  it  may  fairly  be  said  to  have  in 
time  become  part  of  the  French  nature.  But  it  was 
never  thus  in  England  even  in  the  days  when  the  unities 
of  time  and  place  were  most  strictly  insisted  upon  in 
theory  and  observed  in  practice.  Though  the  leading 
writers  generally  submitted  to  the  rules,  they  did  not 
do  so  rejoicingly.  They  felt  the  hardship  much  more 
than  they  appreciated  the  assumed  sesthetic  result. 
Shadwell,  for  instance,  tells  us  in  the  preface  to  his 
comedy  of  '  The  Sullen  Lovers,'  brought  out  in  1668, 
that  as  near  as  he  could  he  had  observed  the  unities. 
The  place  was  a  narrow  compass,  and  the  time  did  not 
exceed  six  hours.  But  "you  cannot  expect,"  he  con- 
cludes with  saying,  "  a  very  correct  play,  under  a  year's 

46 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

pains  at  the  least,  from  the  wittiest  man  of  the  nation." 
If  such  words  could  come  from  a  professed  follower  and 
enthusiastic  admirer  of  Ben  Jonson,  we  can  easily  get 
an  insight  into  the  feelings  of  those  who  gave  the  pref- 
erence to  Jonson's  greater  contemporary.  As  time 
went  on,  Shakespeare  came  more  and  more  to  the  front. 
His  plays,  and  an  increasing  number  of  them,  were 
more  and  more  acted.  They  not  merely  kept  before 
the  minds  of  men  other  ideals  than  those  then  in 
fashion,  but  the  name  of  their  author  served  as  a  stand- 
ard of  revolt  about  which  the  disaffected  gathered. 

For  there  was  disaffection  from  the  very  outset. 
Dissent  in  practice  there  always  was ;  but  dissent  in 
theory  also  continued  to  break  out  at  intervals  until  it 
became  strong  enough  in  time  to  supplant  the  established 
faith.  It  was  manifested  early.  No  one  who  has  fa- 
miliarized himself  with  the  critical  controversies  of  the 
Restoration  period  is  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  Dryden 
and  Dryden's  brother-in-law,  Sir  Robert  Howard,  dif- 
fered as  widely  about  the  unities  as  they  did  about 
the  use  of  ryme.  The  same  arguments  were  then  em- 
ployed on  both  sides,  which,  as  we  shall  discover,  had 
been  implied,  if  not  directly  stated  before,  and  were 
to  do  frequent  duty  later.  Howard  insisted  that  one 
stage  cannot  represent  two  rooms  or  two  houses  any 
more  truly  than  it  can  two  countries.  Twenty-four 
hours  cannot  be  crowded  into  two  hours  and  a  half  any 
more  than  can  twenty-four  months.  All  these  things 
are  impossibilities;  and  impossibilities  are  equal  and  ad- 
mit of  no  degrees.1     The  reply  of  Dryden  was  essen- 

1  Preface  to  'The  Duke  of  Lerraa  '  (16G8). 
47 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

tially  to  the  effect  that  though  impossibilities  are  in 
reality  the  same,  they  are  not  the  same  to  our  concep- 
tions. It  is  more  in  consonance  with  our  feelings  to 
accept  a  business  of  twenty-four  hours  as  having  hap- 
pened in  three,  than  a  business  of  twenty-four  years. 
Furthermore,  one  real  place  can  easily  represent  two 
imaginary  places,  provided  it  be  done  in  succession.1 
Dryden  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  that  in  this  last 
modification  of  the  rules  he  was  practically  giving  up 
his  own  cause.  Still,  most  of  the  rising  generation  of 
dramatists  ranged  themselves  on  his  side.  Howard's 
was  little  more  than  a  solitary  voice;  for  while  others 
doubtless  thought  as  he  did,  few  had  the  courage  to 
say  so.  The  weight  of  critical  opinion  was  and  long 
continued  to  be  the  other  way.  Moreover,  it  was  posi- 
tive in  the  expression  of  its  views  up  to  the  point  of 
arrogance  and  insolence.  However  much  individuals 
might  therefore  dislike  the  doctrine  of  the  unities  or 
be  disposed  to  deny  its  truth,  they  felt  the  pressure 
put  upon  them  to  submit  to  its  requirements. 

For  all  that,  it  was  no  few  scattered  persons  whom 
Howard  represented.  They  constituted  a  party,  and 
it  was  a  party  which  never  ceased  to  exist.  It  may 
be  said  to  have  had  the  secret  sympathy  of  most  of 
the  spectators;  at  least  it  never  incurred  their  hostil- 
ity. It  was  not,  indeed,  dread  of  the  hearers  that 
made  the  English  playwright  observe  the  unities;  it 
was  dread  of  the  critics.  This  was  a  fundamental  dis- 
tinction between  the  English  and  the  French  theatre. 
It  arose   largely  from    the   fact   that   in    France    the 

1  Defence  of  an  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy  (1668). 

48 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

audience  was  made  up  of  a  select  class,  while  in 
England  it  was  made  up  of  all  classes.  But  further- 
more, in  the  critical  world  of  the  latter  country 
there  was  always  to  be  found  a  number  who  in  theory 
at  least  did  not  bow  their  knees  to  this  particular  Baal. 
Some  of  them,  too,  were  men  who  occupied  a  high  posi- 
tion in  literature.  Early  in  the  eighteenth  century  the 
dramatist  Farquhar  attacked  the  doctrine  in  his  '  Dis- 
cussion upon  Comedy  in  reference  to  the  English  Stage.' 
Neither  the  men  who  originated  it  nor  the  men  who 
defended  it  were  spared.  He  spoke  with  the  utmost 
contempt  of  the  plays  produced  by  scholars  in  exactest 
conformity  with  the  rules,  but  lacking  every  quality 
that  could  interest  or  excite.  Aristotle,  moreover, 
fared  hardly  at  the  hands  of  Farquhar,  not  so  much 
for  what  he  had  said  himself  as  for  what  others  had 
said  that  he  said.  The  force  of  this  special  attack  was 
largely  impaired  by  his  contention  that  inasmuch  as  the 
great  philosopher  was  no  poet,  he  was  incapable  of 
judging  what  constitutes  poetry.  This  is  of  course  a 
principle  which,  if  fully  carried  out,  would  leave  only 
to  a  cook  the  power  of  determining  whether  a  dinner 
is  good  or  bad.  But  his  vigorous  argument  against 
what  he  spoke  of  as  the  felly  of  the  unities  was  not 
weakened  by  the  adoption  of  this  ancient  fallacy. 

In  regard  to  time,  Farquhar  maintained  that  if 
writers  extended,  as  they  ordinarily  did,  to  twelve  or 
twenty-four  hours  the  action  of  a  play  which  took  but 
three  hours  in  representation,  there  was  no  reason  why 
they  should  not  also  extend  it  to  days.  Adherence  to 
precise  fact  had  been  violated  in  the  one  case  and 
4  49 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

had  been  authoritatively  sanctioned.  There  was  no 
reason  in  the  nature  of  things  why  the  same  privilege 
should  not  be  accorded  to  a  further  as  yet  unsanc- 
tioned violation  of  exactly  the  same  character.  A 
similar  argument  prevailed  as  to  place.  How  can  you 
carry  me  with  you  ?  he  represents  the  objector  as  ask- 
ing. Very  easily,  replies  Farquhar,  if  you  are  willing 
to  go.  You  enter  the  theatre,  and  as  soon  as  the  cur- 
tain rises  you  are  told  that  you  are  in  Grand  Cairo, 
though  the  moment  before  you  were  in  England.  This 
is  a  most  outrageous  improbability,  but  you  consent  to 
it  without  difficulty.  Then  the  curtain  rises  on  a 
second  scene,  and  you  find  yourself  in  Astrachan. 
Intolerable,  you  say.  No  more  so  than  in  the  other 
case,  is  the  reply.  If  you  let  your  mind  travel,  it  will 
perform  the  journey  with  perfect  ease  without  the 
slightest  disturbance  to  your  person.  There  was  of 
course  nothing  novel  in  this  argument.  It  did  no  more 
than  repeat  what  we  shall  see  had  been  said  by  Shake- 
speare himself. 

This  was  the  protest  against  the  observance  of  the 
unities  put  forth  by  a  leading  dramatist  at  the  very  be- 
ginning of  the  eighteenth  century.  In  the  middle  of 
it  views  of  the  same  character  were  expressed  by  two 
men  of  eminence,  one  of  whom  was  a  man  of  genius. 
These  were  Foote  and  Fielding.  In  a  guarded  way 
the  former  expressed  contempt  for  the  doctrine.  "In 
general,"  said  he,  "these  bonds  do  not  hit  the  taste  and 
genius  of  the  free-born  luxuriant  inhabitants  of  this  isle. 
They  will  no  more  bear  a  yoke  in  poetry  than  in  reli- 
gion."    He  added  that  Shakespeare,  by  heeding  only 

50 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

the  unity  of  character,  disregarded  by  the  writers  of 
other  countries,  "  had  produced  more  matter  for  delight 
and  instruction  than  could  be  culled  from  all  the  starved, 
strait-laced  brats  that  every  other  bard  has  produced."1 
It  was  almost  to  be  expected  that  the  doctrine  in  ques- 
tion should  be  spurned  by  the  robust  intellect  of  Field- 
ing. Such  was  certainly  the  fact.  In  the  critical  chapter 
prefixed  to  the  fifth  book  of  'Tom  Jones,'  he  took  occa- 
sion to  sneer  at  the  authority  which  had  been  adduced 
to  bolster  it  up.  "  Whoever  demanded,"  he  wrote,  "  the 
reasons  of  that  nice  unity  of  time  and  place  which  is 
now  established  to  be  so  essential  to  dramatic  poetry? 
What  critic  hath  ever  been  asked  why  a  play  may  not 
contain  two  days  as  well  as  one  ?  Or  why  the  audience 
(provided  they  travel,  like  electors,  without  any  expense) 
may  not  be  wafted  fifty  miles  as  well  as  five?" 

Incidental  utterances  like  these  could  not  be  expected 
to  affect  profoundly  public  opinion.  An  assertion  of 
this  sort,  however,  would  not  be  true  of  two  fuller  dis- 
cussions of  the  subject  which  were  made  a  little  later. 
In  this  controversy  more  weight  should  be  given  than 
has  yet  been  the  case  to  the  influence  of  Henry  Home, 
who  in  1752  had  been  appointed  one  of  the  Scotch 
judges  of  session,  and  had  taken  his  seat  as  Lord 
Karnes.  Ten  years  later  —  in  1762  —  he  brought  out 
a  work  in  three  volumes  entitled  '  Elements  of  Criti- 
cism.' It  is  not  a  treatise  which,  strictly  speaking,  can 
be  called  exciting.  Indeed  Goldsmith  is  credited  with 
the  assertion  that  it  is  one  easier  to  have  written  than 

1  Foote's  'Roman  and  English  Comedy  Considered  and  Compared' 
(1747),  pp.  21-22. 

51 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

to  read.  The  ideas  of  Kames  were  often  acute  and  sug- 
gestive; but  in  his  way  of  expressing  them  he  was 
almost  invariably  prosaic  and  dry.  This  characteristic, 
however,  had  its  compensations.  He  got  that  reputa- 
tion for  being  profound  which  comes  to  the  author 
who  makes  the  reader  share  in  his  own  labor.  Still, 
for  a  production  of  its  kind  the  work  was  fairly  success- 
ful, if,  indeed,  it  is  not  entitled  to  be  called  popular. 
Before  the  death  of  its  author  in  1782  it  had  gone 
through  five  editions.  It  had  early  been  translated  into 
German.  Even  at  this  day  it  may  be  said  still  to 
survive  after  a  fashion.  There  is  no  question  that  dur- 
ing the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  owing  to 
the  position  of  its  author  and  the  philosophical  nature 
of  the  work  itself,  it  exerted  a  good  deal  of  influence, 
especially  with  the  critical  fraternity.  This  makes  the 
opinion  expressed  by  Kames  about  the  unities  a  matter 
of  some  importance  in  the  history  of  the  controversy.- 

In  regard  to  the  doctrine,  he  took  what  was  in  some 
respects  advanced  ground  for  his  day.  His  line  of 
argument  may  be  briefly  stated.  The  unity  of  action 
is  the  only  thing  essential  to  dramatic  composition. 
The  unities  of  time  and  place  stand  upon  an  altogether 
different  footing.  Observance  of  these  two  latter  had 
indeed  been  inculcated  as  absolutely  necessary  both  by 
French  and  English  critics.  Such  they  were  even  ac- 
knowledged to  be  by  the  very  dramatists  who  in  their 
practice  frequently  disregarded  them.  These,  however, 
made  no  pretence  to  justify  their  conduct.  This  task 
Kames  proceeded  to  do  for  them.  In  requiring  the 
modern  theatre  to  conform  to  the  ancient  in  the  matter 

52 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

of  the  unities,  he  insisted  that  modern  criticism  was 
guilty  of  a  gross  blunder.  The  Greek  drama  was  a 
continuous  representation  without  interruption.  Con- 
tinuous representation  gave  no  opportunity  to  vary  the 
place  or  prolong  the  time.  These  unities  were  there- 
fore with  them  a  matter  of  necessity  and  not  of  choice. 
In  the  modern  drama,  on  the  other  hand,  obedience 
to  this  doctrine  was  a  matter  purely  of  choice  and  not 
at  all  of  necessity.  In  it  the  stage  is  emptied  at 
regular  intervals,  and  the  spectacle  suspended.  When 
the  action  is  renewed,  the  mind  easily  accommodates 
itself  to  the  variations  of  time  and  place  that  may  have 
been  introduced. 

In  some  particulars  Karnes  had  anticipated  the  line  of 
reasoning  by  which  Lessing  was  a  little  later  to  demolish 
the  foundations  upon  which  the  doctrine  of  the  unities  was 
built.  In  other  ways  he  had  not  worked  himself  clear 
from  the  beliefs  and  prejudices  of  his  time.  He  clung 
to  the  division  of  the  play  into  five  acts  as  something 
peculiarly  sacred.  Consequently,  while  time  and  place 
might  he  varied  from  one  act  to  another,  it  could  not  be 
within  the  acts  themselves.  He  further  failed  to  com- 
prehend the  very  strongest  argument  which  Lessing 
subsequently  brought  against  the  obligation  of  the  uni- 
ties, and  even  went  on  to  argue  against  its  force.  There 
is,  however,  a  good  deal  of  justice  in  his  contention  that 
unbounded  license  on  the  subject  of  time  is  faulty,  not 
necessarily  in  itself,  but  because  it  tends  to  destroy  the 
first  and  only  important  unity,  that  of  action.  The  judi- 
cial attitude  of  mind  which  Karnes  preserved  throughout 
his  whole  discussion  of  the  subject  undoubtedly  contrib- 

53 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

uted  much  to  the  favorable  reception  of  his  conclusions. 
His  very  moderation  of  utterance  on  certain  points  would 
recommend  his  views  on  others  to  many  who  would 
have  been  unwilling  to  cast  off  at  one  stroke  the  bur- 
den of  traditional  beliefs  which  had  been  brought  down 
from  the  past. 

But  the  most  effective  opponent  of  the  unities  during 
the  eighteenth  century  was  Dr.  Johnson.  It  was  in  one 
of  his  essays  in  '  The  Rambler '  that  he  first  considered 
them.1  In  that  it  was  merely  a  part  of  a  general  attack 
upon  dramatic  beliefs  current  in  his  day.  He  specifi- 
cally mentioned  certain  rules,  then  or  formerly  accepted 
as  governing  stage  productions,  as  being  nothing  more 
than  the  "  accidental  prescriptions  of  authority,"  which, 
he  added,  "  when  time  has  procured  them  veneration,  are 
often  confounded  with  the  laws  of  nature."  As  their 
origin  was  frequently  undiscoverable,  they  were  sup- 
posed in  consequence  to  be  coeval  with  reason.  One  of 
these  laws  peremptorily  decreed  by  ancient  writers  —  by 
Horace  in  particular — was  that  but  three  actors  should 
appear  at  once  upon  the  stage.  This  rule,  for  which 
there  was  no  real  reason,  it  had  been  found  impossible 
to  observe  in  the  crowded  modern  scene.  It  had  there- 
fore been  violated  without  scruple,  and,  as  experience 
had  shown,  without  the  least  inconvenience.  In  this 
instance  Johnson  found  his  own  opinion  supported  by 
the  opinion  of  his  age.  But  hostility  was  manifested  by 
him  to  the  rule,  then  regularly  observed,  that  the  number 
of  acts  should  be  five.  For  this  practice  he  could  find 
no  justification.  The  intervals  in  any  given  play,  he 
*  Ho.  156,  Sept.  14,  1751. 
54 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

said,  might  be  more  or  fewer  than  that  number.  Usu- 
ally indeed  they  were  different  from  it.  As  a  conse- 
quence the  rule  was  constantly  broken  on  the  English 
stage  in  effect,  while  a  most  absurd  endeavor  was  made 
to  observe  it  in  appearance.  Modern  practice  sustains 
Johnson's  contention.  Regard  is  no  longer  paid  to 
this  rule  which  Horace  had  authoritatively  declared 
should  never  be  trangressed  in  stage  representation. 
To  the  unprejudiced  observer,  indeed,  there  seems  no 
more  reason  that  a  drama  should  be  in  five  acts  than 
a  novel  in  three  volumes. 

With  independent  views  upon  these  points  it  is  not 
surprising  to  find  Johnson  questioning  the  authority 
of  the  doctrine  of  the  unities.  At  this  time,  how- 
ever, he  did  little  more  than  record  his  dissent.  But 
when  fourteen  years  later  he  brought  out  his  edition 
of  Shakespeare  he  was  much  more  outspoken.  In  the 
preface  to  that  work  he  not  only  examined  the  doctrine 
at  considerable  length,  but  he  made  no  pretence  to  veil 
the  contempt  for  it  he  felt.  He  ridiculed  the  idea  that 
any  representation  is  ever  mistaken  for  reality,  and 
summed  up  the  situation  by  declaring  that  the  specta- 
tors are  always  in  their  senses,  and  know  from  the  first 
act  to  the  last  that  the  stage  is  only  a  stage,  and  that 
the  players  are  only  players.  They  do  not  believe  for  a 
moment  that  the  place,  where  the  scene  is  supposed  to  be, 
is  Athens  or  Vienna  or  Venice  or  Verona,  and  still  less 
that  the  persons  who  are  speaking  the  words  they  hear 
are  actually  Theseus  or  Mariana  or  Shylock  or  Romeo. 
Delusion,  if  delusion  be  admitted,  has  no  limitation.  If 
a  man,  when  the  play  opens  at  Alexandria,  really  imag- 

55 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

ines  himself  to  be  at  Alexandria,  he  can  readily  imagine 
more.  If  at  one  time  he  can  take  the  stage  to  be  the 
palace  of  the  Ptolemies,  he  can  a  little  later  as  easily 
take  it  for  the  promontory  of  Actium.  This,  it  will 
be  seen,  is  essentially  Farquhar's  position.  Yet  while 
Johnson  laid  down  principles  like  these,  which  seem  to 
us  almost  commonplaces,  he  did  it  with  a  certain  hesi- 
tation. He  acknowledged  that  the  weight  of  authority 
was  against  him  and  that  he  was  almost  frightened  at  his 
own  temerity.  These  words  are  significant.  Strongly 
intrenched  indeed  must  have  been  the  belief  which 
could  make  Johnson  falter  about  attacking  it,  whether 
it  was  held  by  few  or  by  many,  by  great  men  or  by 
little  men. 

Yet  he  must  have  met  with  views  not  essentially 
different  in  works  with  which  he  was  familiar.  Dis- 
sent pervades  a  good  deal  of  the  critical  literature  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  It  was  to  some  extent  en- 
couraged by  the  wavering  action  of  the  advocates  of 
the  unities,  which  naturally  did  not  tend  to  inspire 
implicit  confidence  in  the  justice  of  these  rules.  Dry- 
den  argued  for  them.  In  his  earlier  plays  he  had 
more  than  once  pointed  out  how  careful  he  had  been 
to  observe  them  with  a  strictness  which  the  audience 
did  not  demand.  The  views  expressed  by  him  in  the 
preface  to  '  The  Maiden  Queen,'  he  repeated  in  the 
preface  to  '  Tyrannic  Love,'  published  three  years  later. 
In  it  he  said  that  "the  scenes  are  everywhere  un- 
broken, and  the  unities  of  time  and  place  more  exactly 
kept  than  are  perhaps  requisite  in  tragedy."  These 
words  represent  his  earlier  attitude.     In  his  later  plays 

56 


THE   DRAMATIC    UNITIES 

he  was  far  from  manifesting  this  scrupulous  respect. 
He  sometimes  regarded  these  rules ;  at  other  times  he 
disregarded  them,  and  disregarded  them  deliberately. 
Shakespeare,  whom  he  had  come  more  and  more  to 
admire,  was  influencing  both  his  views  and  practice. 
In  'The  Duke  of  Guise,'  written  in  conjunction  with 
Lee  and  brought  out  in  1682,  the  unities  of  time 
and  place  are  not  observed.  It  was  not  the  inten- 
tion of  the  authors,  he  declared  in  his  vindication  of 
the  play,  to  make  an  exact  tragedy.  "  For  this  once," 
he  wrote,  "  we  were  resolved  to  err  with  honest  Shake- 
speare." The  habit  of  erring  is  apt  to  grow  upon  men, 
and  this  particular  one  certainly  did  so  with  Dryden. 
He  not  only  repeated  the  offence,  but  ceased  to  apolo- 
gize for  it,  and  in  fact  became  somewhat  defiant.  In 
the  preface  to  '  Don  Sebastian,'  brought  out  in  1690, 
he  unblushingly  declared  that  he  had  not  kept  the  rules 
exactly.  These  for  some  time  previous  he  had  begun, 
rather  disparagingly,  to  term  mechanic.  "  I  knew  them," 
he  said,  "  and  had  them  in  my  eyes,  but  followed  them 
only  at  a  distance ;  for  the  genius  of  the  English  cannot 
bear  too  regular  a  play :  we  are  given  to  a  variety,  even 
a  debauchery  of  pleasure."  Accordingly  he  had  length- 
ened the  time  of  the  action  to  two  days,  on  the  avowed 
ground  that  it  is  lawful  for  a  poet  to  sacrifice  a  lesser 
beauty  in  order  to  secure  a  greater.  This  same  hereti- 
cal state  of  mind,  expressed  in  about  the  same  language, 
can  be  found  exhibited  in  the  preface  to  '  Cleomenes,' 
produced  some  two  years  later. 

Even  the  professional  critics    themselves  could  not 
be   trusted    to    maintain   the   orthodox   view,  when   it 

57 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

suited  their  convenience  to  disown  it.  In  the  last 
decade  of  the  seventeenth  century  Thomas  Scott,  a 
young  graduate  of  Cambridge  University,  had  caused 
considerable  fluttering  in  the  critical  dovecotes  by  de- 
claring that  he  who  wrote  by  rule  would  have  only 
his  labor  for  his  pains.  This  monstrous  sentiment 
appeared  in  the  preface  to  a  play  entitled  '  The  Mock 
Marriage,'  which  is  said  to  have  met  with  a  good 
deal  of  success.  The  utterance  of  such  an  opinion 
aroused  the  indignation  of  Dennis,  who  took  pains  to 
point  out  that  while  one  man  may  write  irregularly 
and  yet  please,  and  another  may  write  regularly  and 
yet  not  please,  still  he  who  writes  according  to  the 
rules  will,  other  things  being  equal,  always  please 
more  than  he  who  transgresses  them.1  Dennis  proved 
his  faith  by  his  works.  The  remarks  with  which  he 
introduced  his  plays  are  interesting  for  the  revelation 
they  furnish  of  the  strong  hold  which  the  doctrine 
of  the  unities  had  then  gained.  In  the  advertisement 
to  the  reader  prefixed  to  his  comedy  of  'A  Plot  and 
no  Plot,'  he  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  action 
takes  place  inside  of  four  hours.  Yet  to  obtain  this 
result  he  had  sacrificed  throughout  the  truth  of  life 
by  representing  the  characters  of  the  play  as  pursu- 
ino-  a  course  of  conduct  which  could  never  have  been 
followed  by  any  persons  outside  of  Bedlam.  Had  this 
been  the  work  of  another,  no  one  would  have  been 
quicker  than  he  to  comment  upon  its  absurdity.  A 
little  later  in  the  preface  to  his  '  Iphigenia '  he  took 

1  Dennis's  letter  of  Oct.  26,  1695,  to  Walter  Moyle,  in  '  Letters  upon 
Several  Occasions.' 

58 


THE  DRAMATIC    UNITIES 

pains  to  assure  the  readers  of  that  tragedy  that  his 
aim  had  been  to  reconcile  variety  to  regularity;  "for 
irregularity  in  a  drama,"  he  observed,  "is  like  ir- 
regularity in  life,  a  downright  extravagance,  and  ex- 
travagance, both  on  the  stage  and  in  the  world,  is 
always  either  vice  or  folly  and  usually  both." 

But  the  moment  Dennis  subjected  to  rigid  examina- 
tion the  work  of  another  who  had  conformed  to  these 
same  rules,  his  eyes  were  opened  to  their  impropriety, 
not  to  say  enormity.  In  1713  he  published  his  remarks 
upon  the  '  Cato '  of  Addison.  Never  was  a  more  merci- 
less exposure  made  of  the  improbabilities  and  absurdi- 
ties into  which  a  writer  can  fall  by  strict  adherence  to 
the  unities  of  time  and  place.  It  was  the  reading  of 
this  somewhat  famous  critique,  while  still  a  boy,  which 
first  led  Jeffrey,  as  he  said  in  1822,  to  feel  the  contempt 
for  these  vaunted  rules  which  he  had  ever  after  re- 
tained.1 No  answer  could  be  made  to  it,  and  Pope's 
vulvar  abuse  of  the  author  was  itself  a  confession  that 
its  arguments  could  not  be  met.  But  it  shows  how 
great  a  revolution  had  taken  place  in  the  mind  of  the 
critic  that  by  this  time  regularity  had  lost  for  him  its 
charm.  Dennis  recognized  the  difficulty  of  applying 
the  rules  of  the  ancient  drama  to  the  government  of 
the  modern.  He  pointed  out  that  the  chorus  rendered 
the  unity  of  place  a  necessity  to  the  Greek  stage.  But 
as  the  chorus  had  ceased  to  exist,  there  was  in  his 
opinion  no  longer  any  compulsion  to  preserve  this 
unity.  It  was  indeed  desirable  to  do  so,  if  it  could 
be    done   without    destroying    the    probability   of    the 

1  Edinburgh  Review,  vol.  xxxvi.  p.  423. 
59 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

incidents.  But  if  it  could  not  be  kept  without  mak- 
ing them  seem  unreasonable  and  absurd,  far  better 
that  it  should  be  discarded. 

It  would  be  an  error  to  assume  that  utterances  of  the 
kind  which  have  been  quoted  were  confined  to  those 
whose  intellectual  superiority  or  peculiarity  of  character 
was  sure  to  be  attended  with  a  certain  degree  of  in- 
tellectual independence.  During  the  whole  of  the 
eighteenth  century  disbelief  in  the  unities  can  be  found 
expressed  by  writers,  some  of  them  entirely  unknown 
to  fame  now,  and  certain  of  them  not  too  well  known 
then.  A  few  of  them  are  worth  noting.  An  anony- 
mous treatise  upon  the  tragedy  of  '  Hamlet,'  published  in 
1736,  denounced  the  rules  as  arbitrary  and  absurd.  If 
they  prove  anything,  said  the  writer,  they  prove  too 
much ;  "  for  if  our  imagination  will  not  bear  a  strong 
imposition,  surely  no  play  ought  to  be  supposed  to  take 
more  time  than  is  really  employed  in  the  acting ;  nor 
should  there  be  any  change  of  place  in  the  least."  So 
far  therefore  from  deploring,  as  was  then  the  usual  and 
correct  thing  to  do,  Shakespeare's  disregard  of  the  uni- 
ties, he  denied  that  there  was  any  obligation  on  his  part 
to  observe  them.  He  further  pointed  out  that  there 
were  certain  conventions  to  which  we  all  assent  without 
being  in  the  least  shocked  by  their  inconsistency  with 
the  facts  of  real  life.  Change  of  time  and  place  in  the 
same  play  is  no  more  absurd,  for  instance,  than  that 
all  the  men  of  all  nations  should  speak  English.1 

1  This  pamphlet  has  been  ascribed  to  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer  by  Sir 
Henry  Bunbury,  the  editor  of  his  '  Correspondence '  (p.  80).  His  author- 
ship of  it  is  so  improbable  that  it  may  be  called  impossible.  The 
seutiments  expressed  in  it  arc  not  Hanmer's  sentiments. 

60 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

A  more  signal  example  of  revolt  was  furnished  by  the 
commentator  Upton.  He  was  steeped  in  the  literature 
of  the  classics ;  yet  he  spoke  somewhat  contemptuously 
of  Ben  Jonson  for  his  deeming  it  a  poetical  sin  to  trans- 
gress the  rules  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  He  was 
himself  not  inclined  to  look  with  disapprobation  upon 
the  disregard  of  the  unities  which  had  been  exhibited 
by  Shakespeare.  Dramatic  poetry  was,  in  his  opinion, 
the  art  of  imposing.  Accordingly,  if  the  story  is  one 
whole  —  that  is,  if  the  unity  of  action  has  been  pre- 
served —  the  spectator  does  not  take  into  consideration 
the  length  of  time  necessary  to  produce  the  incidents 
that  occur.  -It  is  the  same  with  the  unity  of  place. 
The  artificial  contrivance  of  scenes  equally  imposes 
upon  the  audience.  It  enables  the  hearer  to  accompany 
without  difficulty  the  poet  in  the  transitions  he  makes 
from  one  spot  to  another.  But  it  is  characteristic  of 
the  timidity  of  his  age  that  Upton,  after  showing  that 
neither  the  unity  of  time  nor  of  place  is  essential, 
proceeded  to  remark  that  he  was  unable  to  determine 
whether  they  are  essential  or  not.  All  he  professed 
to  do  was  to  question  the  justice  of  insisting  upon  them 
as  necessary.  Others  there  were,  however,  who  were 
bolder.  Daniel  Webb,  a  writer  who  had  then  some 
vogne,  brought  out  in  1762  a  work  entitled  '  Remarks 
on  the  Beauties  of  Poetry.'  In  it  he  maintained  that 
to  Shakespeare's  neglect  of  the  unities  is  due  the  sin- 
gular energy  and  beauty  of  his  style;  that  regard  for 
these  rules  is  sure  to  end  in  substituting  narration  for 
action,  the  tumidity  of  declamation  for  the  excitement 
of  passion. 

61 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

After  Johnson  had  given  the  weight  of  his  authority 
to  the  denial  of  the  obligatory  nature  of  the  unities,  the 
number  of  those  protesting  became  greater,  and  their 
expression  of  opinion  much  more  decided.  A  peru- 
sal of  the  periodical  literature  of  that  day  shows  that 
dissent  was  steadily  increasing  in  volume  and  energy. 
It  manifested  itself  also  in  formal  works,  and  in  some 
instances  where  it  could  hardly  have  been  expected. 
A  writer  of  miscellaneous  productions,  named  William 
Cooke,  who  flourished  at  that  time,  published  in  1775  a 
treatise  on  the  'Elements  of  Dramatic  Criticism.'  On 
many  of  the  questions  at  issue  between  the  classicists 
and  the  now  encroaching  romanticists,  he  took  very  con- 
servative ground.  Still  he  did  not  consider  unity  of 
time  and  place  as  essential  to  the  modern  drama.  All 
that  he  insisted  upon  was  that  the  time  should  not  be 
exceptionally  long,  —  that,  for  instance,  a  child  at  the 
beginning  of  the  play  should  not  appear  a  full-grown 
person  at  the  end.  This  was  no  uncommon  view  on  the 
part  of  the  disbelievers  in  the  unities  ;  it  had  been 
expressed  but  a  little  while  before  by  Kames.  But  the 
extent  to  which  the  revolt  against  the  doctrine  was 
now  beginning  to  go  was  evidenced  in  the  biographical 
history  of  English  literature  which  still  preserves,  so 
far  as  it  is  preserved,  the  name  of  Berkenhout.  This 
work  was  published  in  1777.  The  independence  of  its 
author  was  exhibited  by  one  peculiarity.  Berkenhout 
was  an  ardent  admirer  of  Voltaire.  There  was  little 
limit  to  the  homage  which  he  paid  to  the  character,  the 
genius,  and  the  philanthropy  of  that  writer.  In  this 
very  volume  he  spoke  of  him  as  the  scourge  of  sancti- 

62 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

fied  tyranny,  and  the  advocate  of  oppressed  innocence 
who  deserved  the  thanks  of  all  mankind.  On  the  sub- 
ject of  the  unities,  however,  he  considered  that  Voltaire 
was  wholly  wrong.  Of  these  rules  Berkenhout  spoke 
in  terms  of  vituperation  rather  than  censure.  Accord- 
ing to  him  they  were  the  inventions  of  dulness,  and 
served  merely  as  leading-strings  for  puny  poetasters. 
Shakespeare  was  perfectly  right  in  rejecting  them.  The 
result  of  obeying  them  led,  in  Berkenhout's  opinion,  to 
nothing  but  the  production  of  monstrosities.  "  I  never 
saw  or  read,"  he  asserted,  "  a  tragedy  or  comedy  fettered 
by  the  unities,  which  did  not  seem  improbable,  unnatural, 
or  tedious."  V 

As  the  century  approached  its  close  this  voice  of 
dissent  became  bolder  and  louder.  The  critical  world 
gradually  ranged  itself  into  two  distinct  parties  ;  but 
it  is  plain  that  the  one  opposed  to  the  unities  grew 
steadily  more  numerous  and  aggressive.  Some  there 
were  who  sought  to  take  a  middle  course,  such  as 
Chesterfield  had  advocated  at  an  earlier  period.  The 
time  was  to  be  somewhat  extended,  and  change  of 
place  allowed  to  spots  adjacent  to  the  principal  scene 
of  the  action.2  But  compromises  never  satisfy  in  time 
of  war.  In  general  the  old  belief  was  stoutly  main- 
tained by  the  writers  for  the  periodical  press,  and 
these  were  not  unfrequently  reinforced  by  men  oc- 
cupying prominent  positions  in  the  learned  world. 
Shakespeare's  "  inattention  to  the  laws  of  unity "  was 

1  Biographia  Literaria,  Preface,  p.  xxxii. 

2  See  Chesterfield,  Letter  to  his   son,  Jan.  23,  1752 ;   and  '  Observa- 
tions on  Tragedy,'  appended  to  Hodson's  'Zoraida'  (1780),  p.  87. 

63 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

lamented  by  Richardson,  professor  of  humanity  in 
the  university  of  Glasgow.  This  author  was  in  many 
ways  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  poet.  But  the 
wish  to  keep  the  public  taste  from  becoming  tainted, 
the  hope  to  remove  all  obstacles  which  retarded  the 
improvement  of  dramatic  writing,  compelled  him  to 
do  violence  to  his  feelings  by  censuring  the  grave 
fault  Shakespeare  had  committed  in  disregarding  these 
rules.  This  same  conduct  on  the  part  of  the  poet, 
naturally  fell  under  the  condemnation  of  Richardson's 
fellow  professor  in  the  neighboring  university  of  Edin- 
burgh, Hugh  Blair,  a  perfectly  conventional  critic  of  the 
old  and  now  rapidly  disappearing  type. 

In  Scotland,  indeed,  due  possibly  to  the  influence 
of  Hume,  belief  in  the  unities  seems  to  have  lingered 
longer  than  elsewhere  in  the  United  Kingdom;  as  if 
the  ancient  military  alliance  with  France  had  been 
replaced  by  a  literary  one.  Still  it  is  fair  to  add 
that  Beattie  from  his  northern  university  joined  the 
forces  of  those  opposed  to  the  doctrine,  by  taking  the 
ground  that  conformity  to  its  requirements  was  not 
an  essential  but  a  merely  mechanical  rule  of  com- 
position. He  had  not  made  the  acquaintance  or  gained 
the  patronage  of  Johnson  in  vain ;  and  in  his  '  Disser- 
tations Moral  and  Critical,'  which  he  brought  out  in 
1783,  he  followed  the  footsteps  of  his  leader.  He 
attacked  the  necessity  of  five  acts.1  He  repeated  with 
variation  of  phrase  and  feebler  speech  Johnson's  argu- 
ment against  the  unities.2  So  some  years  previously 
had   the   Italian   Baretti  done  in  the  reply  which  he 

1  Dissertations,  p.  180.  2  Ibid.  p.  188. 

64 


THE  DRAMATIC    UNITIES 

had  made  to  Voltaire's  attack  upon  Shakespeare  be- 
fore the  French  Academy.  At  a  still  later  period  we 
find  the  historian  and  essayist,  Belsham,  insisting  that 
the  unity  of  action  was  the  only  thing  of  importance 
in  the  drama ;  that  the  supposed  necessity  of  impos- 
ing upon  the  hearers  was  a  pure  illusion ;  that  in 
the  representation  of  a  tragedy  not  only  are  we  not 
deceived,  but  we  should  be  miserable  if  we  were.1 
These  are  the  sort  of  ideas  which  were  becoming 
more  and  more  prevalent.  By  the  time  the  century  had 
reached  its  close,  belief  in  the  doctrine  of  the  unities 
had  largely  faded  away.  It  did  not  actually  die  with 
its  expiring  breath,  but  it  was  in  a  dying  condition. 

Yet  for  nearly  the  whole  of  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century  all  this  dissent,  all  these  attacks 
had  but  little  influence  upon  the  practice  of  the  promi- 
nent playwrights  of  the  time.  These  accepted  the 
unities  sometimes  gladly,  sometimes  grudgingly ;  but 
in  any  case  they  accepted  them.  Those  who  found 
most  difficulty  in  conforming  to  their  requirements 
might  hope  that  relief  was  coming;  but  if  so,  it  was 
not  advanced  by  any  action  on  their  own  part.  In 
truth,  they  lived  in  perpetual  awe  of  the  adherents 
of  the  classical  school.  These  men  still  held  the  post 
of  control  in  the  official  organs  of  critical  opinion,  and 
they  generally  stood  ready  to  fall  foul  of  the  venture- 
some author  who  did  not  heed  strictly  the  proper  ob- 
servance of  time  and  place.  It  was  the  one  thing 
over  which  these  petty  critics  kept  constant  watch. 
Other   offences   might   find   palliation,  if   not   forgive- 

1  Essays  Historical  and  Literary  (ed.  of  1799),  vol.  ii.  p.  551. 
5  65 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

ness;  this  was  the  one  unpardonable  sin.  Berken- 
hout,  whose  bold  denunciation  of  the  unities  has  just 
been  quoted,  was  cautioned  by  a  friendly  reviewer  that 
he  ought  to  pay  greater  deference  to  public  opinion. 
His  words  showed  that  he  was  as  heterodox  in  the 
matter  of  the  drama  as  he  was  in  that  of  divinity.1 
Such  was  the  attitude  taken  generally  by  the  body 
of  professional  critics.  Now  and  then,  as  we  have 
seen,  a  voice  was  raised  in  opposition.  This  occurred 
more  frequently  as  time  went  on ;  but  for  a  good 
while  the  current  ran  too  strongly  to  be  successfully 
resisted.  References  to  this  condition  of  things  are 
not  unfrequent  in  the  dramatic  literature  of  the  time. 
Dr.  John  Brown's  tragedy  of  '  Athelstan,'  for  instance, 
was  brought  out  in  1756.  Garrick  wrote  the  epilogue 
to  it,  and  in  that  commented  upon  the  various  kinds 
of  taste  which  the  writers  for  the  stage  felt  bound  to 
consult.  Among  others  he  specified  the  "  Greek-read 
critic,"  who  speaks  with  contempt  of  modern  tragedy, 

but 

"  Excuses  want  of  spirit,  beauty,  grace, 

But  ne'er  forgives  her  failing  —  time  and  place." 

It  is  in  the  prologues  to  plays  that  we  find  re- 
flected most  clearly  the  varying  beliefs  not  only  of 
different  men  but  of  different  periods  during  the 
eighteenth  century.  But  amid  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
opinions  about  dramatic  art  expressed  in  these  pro- 
ductions, one  view  remains  fixed.  This  is  the  invari- 
able deference  paid  to  Shakespeare.  The  concession 
was  frequently,  almost  constantly,  made  that  he  was 

1  Kenrick's  '  London  Review/  May,  1776,  vol.  v.  p.  350. 

66 


THE  DRAMATIC    UNITIES 

exempt  from  the  operation  of  those  laws  by  which 
the  action  of  others  was  held  in  check.  But  though 
the  possession  of  boundless  genius  entitled  him  to 
pardon,  no  mercy  was  shown  to  the  admirer  who  ven- 
tured to  imitate  his  practices.  Such  a  one  must  not 
seek  to  shelter  himself  under  the  sovereignty  of  Shake- 
speare. That  dramatist  had  received  a  sort  of  divine 
right  to  act  wrong.  The  prologues  expressing  this  view 
embrace  other  differences  between  the  classical  and 
the  romantic  drama  than  the  question  of  the  unities  ; 
but  still  this  was  the  one  upon  which  the  principal 
stress  was  almost  invariably  laid.  To  diverge  from 
its  requirements  might  be  permitted  to  the  genius  of 
Shakespeare,  overriding  all  rule ;  but  no  such  liberty 
was  permitted  to  the  modern  writer.  He  could  not 
hope  to  approach  the  excellence  of  the  great  dramatist. 
It  was  therefore  all  the  more  incumbent  upon  him, 
since  he  was  sure  to  lack  Shakespeare's  positive  merits, 
to  free  himself  from  that  author's  faults  or  supposed 
faults.  As  examples  both  of  the  view  itself  and  of 
the  occasional  protests  made  against  its  enforcement, 
it  may  be  well  to  select  certain  passages  from  the 
prologues  to  three  plays  produced  at  different  periods 
during  the  centur}\ 

In  1712  Ambrose  Philips  produced  at  Drury  Lane 
an  adaptation  of  the  Andromaque  of  Racine  under 
the  title  of  '  The  Distrest  Mother.'  The  prologue  was 
written  by  Sir  Richard  Steele.  It  took  up  the  question 
of  the  unities,  enlarged  upon  the  necessity  of  the  rules, 
and  censured  particularly  those  who  conveyed  their 
audience  where  they  chose,  and   made  the  stage  rep- 

67 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

resent  all  countries  the  sun  visited.  The  inevitable 
objection  based  upon  the  conduct  of  Shakespeare  ne- 
cessarily came  up  for  consideration ;  and  it  is  in  this 
way  that  it  was  summarily  disposed  of  by  Steele :  — 

"  But  Shakespeare's  self  transgressed  ;  and  shall  each  elf, 
Each  pigmy  genius,  quote  great  Shakespeare's  self ! 
What  critic  dares  prescribe  what 's  just  and  fit, 
Or  mark  out  limits  for  such  boundless  wit ! 
Shakespeare  could  travel  through  earth,  sea  and  air, 
And  paint  out  all  the  powers  and  wonders  there. 
In  barren  desarts  he  makes  nature  smile, 
And  gives  us  feasts  in  his  enchanted  isle. 

Our  author  does  his  feeble  force  confess, 
Nor  dares  pretend  such  merit  to  transgress ; 
Does  not  such  shining  gifts  of  genius  share, 
And  therefore  makes  propriety  his  care. 
Your  treat  with  studied  decency  he  serves  ; 
Not  only  rules  of  time  and  place  preserves, 
But  strives  to  keep  his  characters  entire,. 
With  French  correctness  and  with  British  fire." 

This  is  the  point  of  view  of  the  early  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  By  the  middle  of  it  men  had 
begun  to  long  for  the  freedom  which  they  did  not 
venture  to  assume.  Colman,  in  his  prologue  to  Dr. 
Francklin's  'Earl  of  Warwick,'  brought  out  in  1766, 
declared  that,  in  times  of  old,  scholars  only  durst  pre- 
sume to  judge.  Now,  he  adds,  every  journalist  has 
turned  Stagirite.  The  modern  writer,  in  consequence, 
while  envying  and  admiring  the  freedom  of  Shake- 
speare, does  not  venture  to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  so 
much  does  the  fear  of  little  men  hold  in  check  the 
courage  of  the  ablest  and  boldest.  It  is  in  these 
words  that  Colman  pictures  the  situation :  — 

68 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

"  In  Shakespeare's  days  when  his  adventurous  muse, 
A  muse  of  fire  !  durst  each  bold  license  use, 
Her  noble  ardor  met  no  critic's  phlegm, 
To  check  wild  fancy  or  her  flight  condemn. 
Ariels  and  Calibans  unblam'd  she  drew, 
Or  goblins,  ghosts  or  witches  brought  to  view. 
If  to  historic  truth  she  shap'd  her  verse, 
A  nation's  annals  freely  she  'd  rehearse  ; 
Bring  Rome  or  England's  story  on  the  stage, 
And  run  in  three  short  hours  thro'  half  an  age. 
Our  bard  all  terror-struck,  and  filled  with  dread, 
In  Shakespeare's  awful  footsteps  dares  not  tread  : 
Through  the  wide  field  of  history  fears  to  stray, 
And  builds  upon  one  narrow  spot  his  play, 
Slips  not  from  realm  to  realm,  whole  seas  between, 
But  bare|y  changes  twice  or  thrice  his  scene, 
AVhile  Shakespeare  vaults  on  the  poetic  wire, 
And  pleased  spectators  fearfully  admire." 

Thirteen  years  later  Jephson,  in  the  prologue  to  his  own 
'Law  of  Lombardy,'  contrasts  the  liberty  of  the  ancient 
stage  with  the  restrictions  placed  upon  the  modern. 
The  only  toil  of  the  old  writers,  he  said,  was  to  achieve 
with  success  dialogue  and  ryme.  The  unities  either 
they  did  not  know,  or  if  they  knew  they  despised. 
They  could  open  a  piece  in  Mexico,  if  they  chose, 
and  end  it  in  Greece.  Now  all  was  changed.  The 
author  appears  now  before  a  learned  tribunal,  quick 
to  detect  violation  of  law  and  ready  to  condemn  it. 
"  Nor,"  he  adds, 

"Let  presumptuous  poets  fondly  claim 
From  rules  exemption  by  great  Shakespeare's  name; 
Tho'  comets  move  with  wild  eccentric  force, 
Yet  humbler  planets  keep  their  stated  course." 

If  authors  anticipate  the  rod  for  deviation  from  rule, 
it  is  hardly  in  human  nature  that  critics  should  refrain 

69 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

from  disappointing  their  expectations.  The  result  was 
that  the  practice  of  observing  the  unities  in  dramatic 
productions  continued  to  prevail  a  good  while  after 
faith  in  them  had  generally  died  out.  By  the  beginning 
of  the  nineteenth  century  the  belief  maintained  but  a 
linsrerinor  life  in  England.  Johnson's  dictum  that  the 
stage  was  only  a  stage,  and  that  the  spectators  knew 
it  was  only  a  stage,  carried  its  truth  on  its  face  ;  other- 
wise the  scenes  of  suffering  represented  would  not 
awaken  pity  but  pain.  Minds  not  already  prepossessed 
by  mechanical  criticism,  he  had  observed,  feel  no  of- 
fence at  the  extension  of  the  intervals  of  time  between 
the  acts.  Equally  was  this  true  of  change  of  place. 
The  maintainers  of  the  old  doctrine  never  stopped  to 
ask  whether  the  hearer  was  actually  disturbed  by  the 
alteration  of  the  scene.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was 
not.  Still,  according  to  their  view  this  was  no  justi- 
fication. It  was  his  business  to  be  disturbed.  If  he 
failed  to  be,  his  conduct  was  reprehensible.  To  the 
existence  of  fictitious  states  of  mind  like  this  the  be- 
lievers in  the  unities  clung  to  the  last.  In  truth,  to 
how  late  a  period  the  doctrine  continued  to  keep  its 
hold  over  the  minds  of  superior  men  can  be  in- 
ferred from  the  preface  which  Walter  Scott  furnished 
to  Dryden's  '  All  for  Love.'  In  this  driven  from  the 
position  that  the  argument  in  favor  of  the  unities 
depends  upon  preserving  the  deception  of  the  scene, 
he  proceeded  to  maintain  that  it  was  necessarily  con- 
nected with  the  intelligibility  of  the  piece.  Scott 
gravely  informed  us  that  it  is  a  cruel  tax,  both 
upon   the   spectator's    imagination   and    his    power   of 

70 


THE   DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

comprehension,  to  transfer  him  from  a  scene  which 
he  has  made  up  his  mind  to  let  pass  temporarily  for 
one  place  to  another  far  distant  with  which  he  has 
to  form  new  associations.1  Did  any  one  ever  actually 
feel  this  tax  upon  his  imagination  or  comprehension  ? 
Scott  never  asked.  He  assumed  it,  and  then  asserted 
it.  In  the  character  of  his  criticism  we  see  the  belief 
in  the  unities  in  its  dying  agonies. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  century  the  playwrights  at 
last  began  occasionally  to  pluck  up  courage.  From  the 
outset,  while  the  critical  opinion  had  been  nearly  all  one 
way,  the  popular  opinion,  as  we  have  seen  from  Dryden's 
words,  was  largely  another.  The  bolder  or  more  impa- 
tient spirits  even  among  its  believers  were  in  conse- 
quence prompted  to  transgress  these  rules,  and  did 
not  always  withstand  the  temptation.  Early  in  the 
eighteenth  century  Mrs.  Centlivre,  in  the  preface  to 
her  comedy  of  '  Love's  Contrivance,'  informed  us  that 
the  audience  cared  nothing  about  their  observance ;  and 
therefore,  while  admitting  their  justice  and  the  desira- 
bility of  heeding  them,  she  had  not  taken  the  pains  to 
do  so  in  this  instance.  The  same  view  of  the  public 
indifference  was  implied  by  Aaron  Hill  a  little  later. 
In  the  preface  to  his  '  Elfrid,'  brought  out  in  1710, 
he  remarked  that  he  had  observed  the  unities  to  a  greater 
nicety  than  an  English  audience  would  probably  think 
necessary;  for  the  scene  was  confined  to  a  house  and 
garden,  and  the  time  was  no  more  than  the  play  required 
for  its  representation.  About  the  middle  of  the  century 
the  tragedy  of  '  Philoclea '  was  produced  at  Covent  Gar- 

1  Scott's  Dryden,  vol.  v.  p.  2S7  (1808). 
71 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

den  and  met  with  a  fair  degree  of  success.  It  is  only 
worthy  of  notice  here  from  the  fact,  commented  on  at 
the  time,  that  its  author,  McNamara  Morgan,  boldly  dis- 
avowed allegiance  to  one  of  the  then  established  laws  of 
the  drama.  "  The  unity  of  place,  "  he  said  in  his  pref- 
ace, "  I  have  disregarded,  because  I  have  observed  such 
regularity  has  seldom  pleased  an  English  audience." 

Courage  and  conduct  like  this  were  rare.  The  usual 
state  of  mind  is  exemplified  by  Dodsley,  who  was  care- 
ful to  prefix  to  his  tragedy  of  '  Cleone,'  brought  out  in 
1758,  that  the  time  of  the  action  was  that  of  the  rep- 
resentation. But  aversion  to  the  doctrine,  which  had 
always  been  latent  among  the  playwrights,  slowly 
spread.  In  the  last  quarter  of  the  century  it  broke 
out  into  open  revolt.  Not  only  were  the  unities  oc- 
casionally violated,  but  what  was  more  significant,  a  con- 
temptuous opinion  was  sometimes  expressed  of  their 
importance.  Here,  as  before,  the  prologues  reveal  the 
change  that  was  coming  over  the  minds  of  men.  In 
January,  1785,  Kemble  brought  out  '  The  Maid  of 
Honor,'  altered  from  Massinger.  It  met  with  no 
success  and  it  was  never  printed.  But  the  prologue 
remains.  The  remarkable  thing  about  that  is  the  view 
expressed  in  it  of  the  unities.  These  were  no  longer 
held  up  as  things  desirable  in  themselves  to  be  ob- 
served, even  though  it  were  not  done.  They  were 
something  rather  to  be  shunned.  This  was  a  sort  of 
view  which  had  not  unfrequently  been  taken  in  the 
case  of  Shakespeare ;  but  it  was  certainly  very  unusual, 
if  not  absolutely  unprecedented,  to  apply  words  like  the 
following  to  the  work  of  an  inferior  dramatist :  — 

72 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

"  Fired  by  the  subject,  the  nice  bounds  of  art 
His  muse  o'erleaps,  and  rushes  to  the  heart. 
Disdains  the  pedant  rules  of  time  and  place, 
Extends  the  period  and  expands  the  space; 
From  state  to  state,  without  a  pause,  does  run, 
Whilst  with  a  thought,  '  the  battle  's  lost  and  won : ' 
Impetuous  fancy  rides  the  veering  wind, 
And  actionless  precision  leaves  behind."  1 

This  was  an  old  play  revamped ;  but  a  few  years  later 
the  same  liberty  of  action  was  taken  with  one  entirely 
new.  In  1792  the  dramatist,  Thomas  Morton,  rejected 
the  observance  of  the  unities  in  his  historical  play  of 
'Columbus.'  He  did  it  designedly.  It  is  in  these 
words  the  prologue  announced  his  intention :  — 

"  The  rigid  laws  of  time  and  place  our  bard 
In  this  night's  drama  ventures  to  discard ; 
If  here  he  errs  —  he  errs  witli  him  whose  name 
Stands  without  rival  on  the  rolls  of  fame; 
Him  whom  the  passions  own  with  one  accord 
Their  great  dictator  and  despotic  lord." 

Even  this  attitude,  little  apologetic  as  it  was,  did  not 
long  continue.  In  time  not  only  were  the  unities 
violated,  but  all  reference  to  the  fact  ceased.  When 
that  omission  became  general,  it  was  clear  that  belief 
in  them  had  lost  all  its  vitality.  It  was  only  a  question 
of  time  when  disregard  of  their  requirements  would  be- 
come the  merest  matter  of  course.  It  was  only  a  mat- 
ter of  a  little  longer  time  when  playwrights  would 
arrive  at   the  situation  which   it   was   long    supposed 

1  This  prologue  was  written  by  the  Hon.  Henry  Phipps,  afterward 
Lord  Mulgrave.  It  can  he  found  in  the  'European  Magazine,'  vol.  vii. 
p.  142,  and  in  the  '  London  Magazine,'  vol.  iv.  (new  series)  p.  137. 

73 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

that  Shakespeare  himself  had  occupied.  They  would 
violate  the  rules  in  happy  unconsciousness  that  any 
rules  ever  existed. 

There  was,  however,  a  good  deal  more  to  be  said 
on  this  subject  than  had  been  said.  But  it  was  not 
then  said  in  England ;  nor  was  the  demolition  of  the 
scientific  basis  upon  which  the  doctrine  of  the  unities 
pretends  to  rest,  due  to  English  criticism.  In  that 
country  the  champions  of  Shakespeare  had  stood,  as 
regards  this  particular  point,  almost  entirely  on  the 
defensive.  They  did  not  deny  the  perfect  propriety 
of  the  rules,  if  one  chose  to  observe  them,  no  matter 
what  was  the  character  and  conduct  of  the  piece ; 
what  they  denied  was  merely  the  necessity  of  their  ob- 
servance. Even  in  the  case  of  the  very  few  who 
went  farther,  it  was  to  the  feelings  they  appealed 
and  not  to  the  reason.  Berkenhout's  attack  on  the 
doctrine,  for  instance,  is  pure  denunciation.  He  offers 
no  argument;  he  simply  expresses  a  personal  opinion. 
It  was  reserved  for  the  man  of  another  country  to 
proclaim  Shakespeare  as  the  true  modern  inheritor  of 
Greek  art.  It  was  left  for  him  to  assume  the  of- 
fensive and  carry  the  war  into  the  enemy's  territory; 
to  maintain  that  the  vaunted  deference  to  the  re- 
quirements of  the  unities  boasted  of  by  the  French 
dramatists,  was  due  to  imperfect  comprehension  or 
wilful  perversion  of  the  principles  laid  down  by  the 
ancients ;  that  these  dramatists  had  mistaken  the  in- 
cidental for  the  essential,  and  even  then,  after  mak- 
ing it  essential,  had  gone  about,  not  to  conform  to 
it  honestly,  but  to  evade  it,  to  circumvent  its  plain- 

U 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

est  provisions  by  devices  which  enabled  them  to  keep 
up  a  show  of  obedience  to  the  doctrine  while  violat- 
ing its  spirit.  Little  did  the  men  of  that  time 
either  in  France  or  England  suspect,  even  less  would 
they  then  have  been  disposed  to  acknowledge,  that 
in  Germany  had  arisen  a  dramatic  critic  far  greater 
than  either  Voltaire  or  Johnson.  Yet  this  is  the 
position  which  few  will  now  be  disposed  to  deny 
to  Lessing.  His  recognition  of  Shakespeare's  su- 
periority to  modern  dramatists,  not  merely  in  poetic 
achievement  but  in  poetic  art,  had  been  proclaimed 
several  years  before ;  but  it  was  not  until  1767,  in 
the  successive  numbers  of  the  Hamburgische  Drama- 
turgies that  he  gave  the  reasons  for  his  faith.  Much 
has  been  written  since  on  the  subject,  and  much  more 
in  quantity  than  he  wrote ;  but  Lessing's  comparatively 
brief  discussion  of  it  still  remains  unsurpassed.  To  him 
belongs  the  credit  of  being  the  first  to  demonstrate  the 
inapplicability  of  the  unities  to  the  modern  drama  ex- 
cept under  special  conditions,  —  conditions  which  the 
modern  author  is  generally  unwilling  to  observe. 

Germany  has  often  shown  a  disposition  to  assert 
that  it  was  she  who  first  appreciated  the  greatness 
of  Shakespeare.  No  assumption  has  been  more  in- 
dignantly scouted  by  English  and  American  students 
of  the  poet.  In  one  way  there  is  a  great  deal  in  the 
claim  that  is  peculiarly  ridiculous.  At  the  time  at 
which  we  have  arrived  Shakespeare  was  no  better 
known  in  Germany  than  he  was  in  France,  if  in  fact 
so  well.  He  was  not  so  much  depreciated,  indeed,  as 
he  was  ignored.     What  acquaintance  existed  with  his 

75 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

writings  was  confined  to  a  very  small  body  of  men. 
There  had  been  a  few  scattered  translations  of  single 
plays.  Of  twenty-two  of  them  Wieland  had  pub- 
lished a  version  between  1762  and  1766.  But  this 
had  not  made  Shakespeare  known.  The  work  was 
but  little  read.  To  this  fact  Lessing  himself  bears 
testimony  that  cannot  be  impeached.  He  commented, 
on  the  indignation  he  aroused  by  his  perpetual  in- 
sistence upon  the  superiority  of  the  great  English 
dramatist  to  Corneille  and  Racine.  "Always  Shake- 
speare, always  Shakespeare ! "  he  represents  his  im- 
patient countrymen  as  exclaiming,  "  and  we  cannot 
even  read  him."  He  therefore  took  the  opportunity 
to  inform  them  of  something  which  they  apparently 
preferred  to  forget.  It  was  that  a  translation  of  the 
poet  already  existed.  It  is  not  yet  completed,  he 
added,  and  yet  no  one  troubles  himself  any  longer 
about  it.1  This  would  be  decisive,  if  indeed  any  proof 
of  it  were  needed,  against  the  pretence  that  apprecia- 
tion of  Shakespeare  had  its  origin  in  Germany.  That 
country  indeed  was  at  this  time  dragged  hand  and 
foot  at  the  car  of  French  criticism ;  and  there  is  some- 
thing almost  pathetic  in  the  way  in  which  Lessing 
occasionally  refers  to  the  intellectual  servitude  under 
which  his  countrymen  were  so  far  from  groaning  that 
the}7  hugged  their  chains.  To  strike  off  the  shackles 
by  which  they  were  fettered  was  his  constant  aim ; 
yet  at  times  there  clearly  came  over  his  spirit  a  feel- 
ing of  doubt  and  almost  of  despair  at  the  apparent 
hopelessness  of  the  task. 

1  Ilamburgische  Dramaturgic,  Xo.  15,  June  19,  1767. 

76 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

But  though  England  owes  nothing  to  Germany  for 
the  appreciation  of  Shakespeare  as  a  poet,  the  latter 
country  may  justly  claim  that  it  took  the  lead  in 
establishing  upon  solid  ground  his  supremacy  as  a 
dramatic  artist.  The  admiration  expressed  for  him 
in  his  own  land  was  then,  and  to  some  extent  has 
since  remained,  a  blind  admiration.  On  the  question 
of  his  art  his  most  enthusiastic  advocates  spoke  igno- 
rantly  when  they  did  not  speak  hesitatingly.  Such 
was  not  the  case  with  Lessing.  There  was  neither 
lack  of  insight  nor  of  knowledge  on  his  part,  nor 
of  the  confidence  which  is  based  upon  them.  Beside 
his  keen  analysis  and  masterly  exposition  of  principles, 
most  English  criticism  of  that  day  seems  peculiarly 
shallow  and  inconclusive.  In  the  consideration  of 
the  doctrine  under  discussion  he  laid  down  at  the 
outset  the  principle  that  the  unity  of  action  was  the 
only  thing  the  ancient  dramatists  really  cared  about, 
and  that  the  other  unities  were  mere  incidental  con- 
sequents of  it.  To  these  latter  they  would  have  paid 
no  heed,  had  not  the  introduction  of  a  body  of  persons, 
constituting  the  chorus,  who  were  always  present  on 
the  stage,  or  absent  from  it  only  for  brief  intervals, 
necessitated  the  selection  of  a  limited  time  and  place 
for  the  action.  Even  under  such  conditions  there 
was  no  rigid  observance  of  these  requirements.  There 
was  no  scruple  about  disregarding  them,  if  higher  ef- 
fects could  be  procured.  But  as  a  general  rule  the 
Greeks  accepted  the  situation  honestly.  They  made 
use  of  the  restriction  of  time  and  place  as  the  reason 
for  simplifying  the  plot.      They  cut  away  everything 

77 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

that  was  superfluous.  They  reduced  the  action  to  a 
singleness  which  rendered  it  independent  of  events 
that  required  for  their  accomplishment  length  of  time 
and  change  of  place.  This  was  their  ideal.  It  was 
not  always  attained,  to  be  sure;  but  it  was  always 
kept  in  mind. 

Now  the  French  —  and  this  was  equally  true  of  the 
English  who  had  both  preceded  and  followed  them  in 
their  practice — had  not  honestly  observed  the  rules. 
The  action  of  the  play  was  no  longer  simple.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  made  exceedingly  complex.  The  chorus 
was  abandoned ;  but  the  unities  of  time  and  place,  which 
the  chorus  had  alone  made  of  importance,  were  lifted 
from  their  subordinate  position  and  treated  as  indispen- 
sable to  the  proper  representation  of  the  play.  As  in 
the  crowded  modern  stage  these  rules  in  their  practical 
working  were  too  oppressive  to  be  followed  in  their 
strictness,  expedients  of  various  kinds  had  been  set 
up  to  evade  the  rigidity  of  their  requirements.  A 
spurious  unity  of  place  was  established.  The  scene 
was  supposed  to  be  one  and  the  same  spot.  Actually, 
however,  the  spot  was  indefinite  enough  to  represent, 
under  the  changing  conditions  of  the  drama,  several 
distinct  places.  Again,  for  the  unity  of  a  single  day 
was  substituted  the  unity  of  indefinite  duration,  in 
which  no  one  spoke  of  the  events  that  marked  the 
passage  of  the  twenty-four  hours. 

It  was  this  mechanical  unity  against  which  Lessing 
protested.  It  was,  according  to  him,  not  in  conformity 
with  the  rules  of  the  ancients,  still  less  binding  upon  the 
practice   of  the    moderns.     But   he   took   much   more 

78 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

advanced  ground.  In  combating  the  delusion  which 
then  prevailed  among  his  countrymen  in  regard  to  the 
regularity  of  the  French  drama,  he  struck  a  blow  at 
the  unity  of  time  as  observed  in  most  modern  plays, 
from  which  it  has  never  recovered.  His  argument  has 
certainly  not  yet  been  met  successfully;  perhaps  it 
would  be  truer  to  say  that  no  attempt  has  been  made 
to  meet  it.  Does  a  man,  Lessing  asked,  necessarily 
regard  unity  of  time  because  he  represents  a  certain 
number  of  acts  as  taking  place  within  twenty-four 
hours  ?  The  answer  is  obvious.  It  will  depend  en- 
tirely on  the  nature  of  the  acts  performed.  Are  they 
such  as  can  properly  take  place  within  the  period  speci- 
fied? The  word  "  properly  "  is  here  of  utmost  import- 
ance. There  may  perhaps  be  no  physical  impossibility 
of  the  commission  of  the  acts  in  the  time  allotted.  But 
the  physical  possibility  is  not  the  main  consideration. 
Is  there  a  moral  possibility  of  the  events  happening  in 
a  single  day  which  in  the  drama  are  credited  to  that 
day?  In  a  world  of  rational  beings  —  and  this  is  the 
world  with  which  the  stage  is  supposed  to  deal  —  could 
the  actions  represented  as  performed  in  twenty-four 
hours  have  been  really  committed?  The  physical  unity 
of  time  is  not  enough.  It  is  the  moral  unity  which  de- 
mands much  more  consideration.  The  violation  of  the 
former  will  often  be  known  but  to  few,  while  the  vio- 
lation of  the  latter  comes  home  to  the  consciousness  of 
every  one.  All  men  are  not  acquainted  with  the  geo- 
graphical situation  of  places.  If  therefore  a  journey 
between  two  points  which  it  requires  more  than  twenty- 
four  hours  to  make  is  represented  in  a  play,  the  viola- 

79 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

tion  of  the  unity  of  time  will  be  recognized  only  by  those 
who  are  familiar  with  the  distance  traversed.  But  every 
person  can  feel  the  ridiculousness  of  portraying  events 
as  happening  in  a  single  day  which  from  his  own  experi- 
ence or  observation  he  knows  could  not  have  taken  place 
in  several.  The  dramatist,  therefore,  who  cannot  pre- 
serve the  physical  unity  of  time  save  at  the  expense  of 
the  moral,  has  sacrificed  what  is  essential  in  art  to  what 
is  purely  accidental. 

Lessing's  point  of  view  was  far  from  being  a  new  one. 
For  that  it  was  too  obvious.  It  had  been  indicated  by 
Racine  himself  in  the  preface  to  his  Berenice,  in  which 
he  is  supposed  by  many  to  have  said  what  he  did  for  the 
purpose  of  reflecting  upon  the  multitude  and  variety  of 
events  found  in  the  plays  of  Corneille.  Whatever  his 
motive,  he  insisted  upon  simplicity  of  action,  and  conse- 
quently denounced  the  introduction  of  a  great  number 
of  incidents.  "  It  is  only  truth  to  life,"  he  wrote,  "  which 
affects  us  in  tragedy.  But  what  truth  to  life  is  there 
when  in  one  day  a  multitude  of  things  takes  place  which 
could  hardly  happen  in  several  weeks?"  Similar  ex- 
pressions of  opinion  can  be  met  with  not  unfrequently. 
La  Place,  in  the  preface  to  his  translations  from  the 
English  drama,  called  attention  to  the  habit,  in  which  the 
French  writers  indulged,  of  compressing  in  their  plays  a 
vast  variety  of  action  into  the  space  of  a  few  hours.  He 
pointed  out  the  improbability  of  such  representations  as 
a  serious  objection  to  the  doctrine  of  the  unities.  The 
same  view  was  taken  by  Lord  Chesterfield.  He  remarked, 
as  one  of  the  faults  of  the  French  stage,  its  disposition  to 
crowd  and  cram  things  together  to  almost  a  degree  of 

80 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

impossibility  from  too  scrupulous  adherence  to  the  uni- 
ties.1 Doubtless  there  were  many  others  to  whom  the 
same  reflection  must  have  occurred.  It  was  Lessing, 
however,  who  was  the  first  to  bring  it  out  sharply  and 
distinctly,  to  enlarge  its  scope  and  importance,  and  to 
reveal  clearly  its  damaging  character.  By  no  one  else 
had  it  been  stated  so  clearly  as  an  argument  against  the 
unities,  or  had  been  put  so  forcibly.  In  this  sense  he 
may  be  called  its  originator. 

The  difficulty,  therefore,  which  always  besets  the 
writer  who  seeks  to  observe  the  unities,  is  to  give 
to  the  action  taking  place  within  the  limits  of  the 
time  and  place  assigned  the  appearance  of  probability 
or  even  of  possibility.  It  is  a  difficulty  which  has 
sometimes  been  successfully  overcome.  More  often 
it  has  been  evaded,  as  there  has  already  been  occa- 
sion to  point  out,  by  a  vagueness  which  leaves  un- 
certain the  length  of  time  which  has  elapsed.  More 
often  still  it  has  been  treated  as  no  difficulty  at  all. 
The  large  majority  of  modern  plays  which  profess  to 
regard  the  unities  cannot  endure  successfully  the  test 
of  Lessing's  principle.  There  is  no  moral  possibility 
that  the  events  represented  as  happening  in  them  can 
have  happened  in  the  time  given ;  in  some  cases  not 
even  the  physical  possibility.  In  order  therefore  to 
conform  to  a  mechanical  rule,  the  reason  of  the  spec- 
tator is  outraged  by  being  asked  to  believe  that  some- 
thing has  taken  place  in  a  certain  number  of  hours 
which  he  knows  could  never  have  taken  place  in  twice 
or  even  twenty  times  the  number  allowed. 

1  Letter  to  his  son,  Jan.  23,  1752. 
6  81 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

It  was  in  the  course  of  his  examination  of  Voltaire's 
Merope  that  Lessing  formulated  and  delivered  this 
damaging  criticism.  He  applied  it  generally  to  the 
plays  of  the  great  French  dramatists ;  but  it  is  pos- 
sible to  apply  it  with  equal  success  to  the  greater 
number  of  English  pieces  which  set  out  to  observe 
the  unities.  They  constantly  make  a  demand  upon 
the  credulity  of  the  hearer  for  which  no  exactest  ob- 
servance of  artificial  rules  can  compensate.  The  fact 
can  be  illustrated  by  scores  of  examples.  In  this  place 
it  may  be  worth  while  to  test  by  this  principle  a  pro- 
duction of  the  man  who  was  not  only  the  stoutest  up- 
holder of  the  doctrine,  but  who  was  the  first  to  announce 
that  Shakespeare  lacked  art  because  he  disregarded 
it.  For  this  purpose  it  is  fair  to  take  not  one  of  his 
poorest  but  one  of  his  very  best  pieces.  Let  us  select 
k  Volpone,  or  the  Fox.'  This  comedy  has  received  un- 
stinted praise  from  the  day  of  its  first  appearance.  By 
some  it  has  been  regarded  as  Jonson's  best  play,  and 
few  will  be  found  to  deny  that  it  deserves  a  goodly 
share  of  the  praise  it  has  received.  Yet  an  analysis 
of  the  plot  will  furnish  a  striking  proof  of  the  justice 
of  Lessing's  criticism  of  the  way  in  which  the  unity 
of  time  is  nominally  maintained,  while  really  set  at 
naught  by  its  advocates. 

Before  proceeding  to  the  main  point,  however,  it 
is  worth  remarking  that  in  this  comedy  the  unity  of 
action  —  the  highest  unity  of  all  —  has  been  but  im- 
perfectly preserved.  The  characters  of  Sir  Politic 
Would-be  and  his  wife,  and  of  the  gentleman  travel- 
ler, Peregrine,  have  no  vital  connection  with  the  rest 

82 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

of  the  play.  The  two  former  are  tacked  to  it  by  what 
is  the  flimsiest  as  well  as  the  clumsiest  of  fastenings. 
They  contribute  really  nothing  to  the  development  of 
the  plot.  They  have  been  dragged  into  it  for  no 
other  purpose  than  to  give  Jonson  an  opportunity  to 
attack  English  persons  and  practices  that  he  deemed 
fair  objects  of  satire.  In  one  instance  only  does  Lady 
Would-be  do  enough  for  a  short  time  —  when  she  comes 
forward  to  denounce  Ccelia  —  to  justify  her  having  any 
place  in  the  piece  at  all.  Even  that  is  lamely  brought 
about.  The  last  character,  Peregrine,  has  no  part  what- 
ever in  the  real  business  of  the  play,  and  the  episode 
of  the  revenge  he  takes  upon  Sir  Politic  Would-be  is 
a  mere  patch  upon  it.  All  these  personages  could  be 
cut  out  of  the  comedy  entirely  without  affecting  the 
progress  of  events  and  with  perceptible  improvement 
to  its  perfection  as  a  work  of  art.  This  is  a  considera- 
tion wholly  independent  of  the  skill  or  success  with 
which  they  have  been  portrayed.  To  that  all  the  praise 
may  be  given  which  any  one  is  disposed  to  bestow.  It 
is  only  from  the  point  of  view  of  art  — upon  which 
Jonson  laid  so  much  stress  —  that  the  introduction  of 
these  characters  is  criticised. 

We  now  proceed  to  give  an  account  of  the  events 
which  are  represented  as  taking  place  within  the  space 
of  about  twelve  hours ;  for  in  this  play  the  time  ex- 
tends from  sunrise  to  sunset.  Volpone,  a  Venetian 
magnifico,  though  in  the  enjoyment  of  vigorous  health, 
has  for  years  been  pretending  to  be  at  the  point  of 
death.  The  object  of  this  course  of  conduct  is  to 
heap  up  wealth  by  gifts  of  money  and  valuables  from 

83 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

men  who  are  flattered  with  the  hope  of  inheriting  his 
vast  possessions.  Accordingly  we  have  at  the  outset 
a  number  of  visits  paid  in  succession  to  the  supposed 
dying  man  by  several  persons,  —  a  lawyer,  an  old  gentle- 
man, and  a  merchant.  Each  one,  under  the  impression 
that  he  is  likely  to  be  the  heir,  brings  a  rich  present. 
After  these  have  come  and  gone,  Volpone  learns  from 
his  parasite  of  the  beauty  of  Ccelia,  the  wife  of  one 
of  these  greedy  seekers  after  his  fortune.  She,  how- 
ever, is  immured  at  her  home  and  kept  under  jealous 
guard  from  all  approach.  In  order  to  obtain  a  sight 
of  her,  he  now  proceeds  to  dress  up  as  a  mountebank 
doctor,  and  then  sets  out  to  dispose  of  his  wares  in 
the  piazza  directly  under  her  window.  She  looks  out, 
and  seeing  her  he  becomes  at  once  deeply  enamored. 
By  the  machinations  of  the  parasite  she  is  dragged 
later  to  the  house  of  the  supposed  helpless  invalid 
by  her  scoundrel  of  a  husband.  Left  alone  with  Vol- 
pone, he  shows  himself  at  once  in  his  real  character, 
and  she  is  only  saved  from  ravishment  by  the  unex- 
pected interposition  of  another  personage,  the  son  of 
the  old  gentleman,  who  has  been  brought  to  the  house 
for  a  special  purpose.  The  rescuer  and  the  rescued 
complain  to  the  authorities.  They  in  turn  are  com- 
plained of  in  a  forged  tale  which  imposes  upon  the 
expectant  greedy  heirs  themselves.  A  trial  ensues. 
The  husband  denounces  his  wife,  the  father  his  son. 
In  consequence  the  guiltless  pair  are  sent  to  prison. 

After  the  successful  result  of  the  trial  Volpone 
makes  up  his  mind  that  he  will  pretend  to  die.  He 
draws  up  a  will   leaving  his  fortune  to  his  parasite. 

84 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

Then  he  places  himself  in  hiding  where  he  can  watch 
the  behavior  of  the  persons  who  suppose  themselves 
his  heirs.  These  all  appear  at  his  house  as  soon  as 
they  receive  the  news  of  his  death.  From  his  place 
of  concealment  he  amuses  himself  with  the  exhibition 
they  make  of  their  disappointment  and  wrath,  as  soon 
as  the  will  is  shown.  To  enjoy  their  vexation  still 
more,  he  manages  to  dress  himself  in  the  garb  of  an 
inferior  officer  of  the  law.  This  his  parasite  has  been 
enabled  to  secure  for  him  by  making  its  owner  drunk 
enough  to  be  stripped.  In  the  disguise  thus  obtained 
Volpone  waylays  the  men  who  had  been  seeking  to 
inherit  his  riches,  and  taunts  them  with  the  failure  of 
their  hopes.  But,  as  an  unexpected  consequence  of 
this  conduct  on  his  part,  the  case  is  reopened  through 
the  agency  of  the  irritated  lawyer.  A  new  trial  takes 
place.  After  various  turns  of  fortune  in  the  course 
of  it,  the  truth  at  last  comes  out.  The  innocent  are 
freed,  and  justice  is  pronounced  at  once  upon  the  guilty 
parties. 

These  are  the  main  incidents  of  the  plot.  The  more 
recital  of  them  is  sufficient  of  itself  to  show  that  a 
series  of  events  has  been  represented  as  taking  place 
in  the  compass  of  a  dozen  hours  which  in  real  life 
could  hardly  be  conceived  of  as  having  occurred  in 
as  many  days.  There  are  minor  details,  of  which 
space  forbids  mention,  which  still  further  enhance  the 
grossness  of  the  improbability.  Let  it  be  conceded 
that  there  exists  in  this  instance  no  physical  impossi- 
bility of  performing  in  the  time  given  the  various  acts 
described.      The   greater   moral    impossibility  of   their 

85 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

accomplishment  still  remains.  As  one  illustration  out 
of  several,  no  court  of  law  which  aimed  at  justice 
ever  proceeded  or  could  proceed  in  the  rapid  manner 
here  indicated.  In  the  space  of  what  can  be  at  best 
hardly  three  hours  two  separate  trials  are  conducted. 
In  each  a  state  of  facts  is  developed  not  merely  dif- 
ferent but  entirely  contrary.  Yet  the  perplexing  ques- 
tions thus  raised  do  not  perplex  the  tribunal.  It 
removes  doubts  and  settles  difficulties  with  a  rapidity 
which  puts  to  shame  the  proverbial  charge  of  the 
law's  delay.  Yet  all  this  and  numberless  other  viola- 
tions of  the  facts  of  life  as  we  know  them,  we  are 
expected  to  accept  without  protest,  because  the  author 
has  paid  strict  attention  to  certain  artificial  rules.  Jon- 
son  himself  was  proud,  and  in  some  respects  justly 
proud,  of  this  play.  Especially  did  he  felicitate  him- 
self upon  its  regularity,  upon  its  being  constructed  in 
accordance  with  the  principles  of  highest  art.  In  the 
prologue  he  boasts  that  in  it  he 

"  Presents  quick  comedy  refined, 
As  best  critics  have  designed. 
The  laws  of  time,  place,  person  he  observeth, 
From  no  needful  rule  he  swerveth." 

Yet  the  gross  improprieties  which  examination  re- 
veals as  pervading  this  play  owe  their  existence  to 
the  author's  success  in  conforming  the  action  to  these 
very  unities  which  he  looked  upon  as  needful  to  the 
perfection  of  the  piece.  The  art  it  exhibits  is  of  the 
kind  which  comes  from  the  observance  of  the  rules. 
It  was  the  kind  of  art  of  which  Shakespeare  was 
ignorant  or  in  which  he  did  not  believe. 

86 


CHAPTER   III 


THE   DRAMATIC    UNITIES 


III 

It  was  neither  to  the  protest  of  Dr.  Johnson  against 
the  doctrine,  nor  to  Lessing's  scientific  demolition  of 
its  pretensions,  that  the  stage  owes  its  deliverance  from 
the  incubus  of  the  unities.  The  criticism  of  the  Eng- 
lish author  affected,  without  question,  public  opinion. 
As  time  went  on,  it  affected  it  more  and  more.  Still, 
as  we  have  seen,  it  did  not  at  the  outset  affect  the 
practice  of  the  prominent  playwrights.  Still  less  was 
any  influence  exerted  by  the  German  author.  Faint 
echoes  only  of  Lessing's  reputation  had  begun  to  reach 
England  in  the  eighteenth  century.  These,  further- 
more, celebrated  him  as  a  creative  writer  and  not  as  a 
critical  one.  In  truth,  the  great  work,  in  which  he  had 
attacked  the  precepts  of  Voltaire  and  had  exalted 
Shakespeare  above  all  modern  dramatists,  was  trans- 
lated into  French  long  before  it  was  apparently  heard 
of  at  all  by  Shakespeare's  countrymen. 

One  can  easily  get  a  false  impression  from  assertions 
of  this  sort.  Lessing  came  in  time  to  influence  pro- 
foundly the  critical  estimate  taken  of  Shakespeare. 
This  was  because  he  furnished  men  with  solid  reasons 
for  a  faith  which,  begot  in  the  first  instance  of  blind 
admiration,  was  held  in  uneasy  defiance  of   what  was 

87 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

then  loudly  proclaimed  as  art.  But  it  was  an  influence 
which  in  the  beginning  was  transmitted  through  others. 
In  Germany  its  action  was  direct,  immediate,  and  far- 
reaching.  Not  so  in  England.  At  the  time  of  which 
we  are  speaking,  not  only  was  Lessing  little  known  in 
that  country,  he  was  less  regarded.  It  was  not  until 
1781  that  a  translation  of  his  Nathan  der  Weise  appeared 
at  London.  It  was  the  work  of  a  German  exile,  named 
Raspe,  who  had  left  his  country  for  his  country's  good, 
but  who  has  achieved  a  certain  distinction  in  English 
literature  as  the  creator  of  Munchausen.  If  contempo- 
rary notices  can  be  trusted,  the  version  was  a  very  in- 
different one.  But  while  in  some  instances  Lessing,  as 
author  of  the  original,  was  treated  with  respect,  the 
contemptuous  attitude  then  frequently  assumed  towards 
German  productions  in  general  was  often  exhibited 
towards  him  personally  with  peculiar  offensiveness. 
The  two  leading  reviews  of  the  day  commented  upon 
his  play  with  scant  courtesy.  "  Considered  merely  as 
a  drama,"  said  one  of  them,  "whatever  may  be  its 
author's  reputation  in  Germany,  it  is  unworthy  of 
notice."1  This,  however,  may  be  deemed  almost  eulogy 
when  contrasted  with  the  insolent  tone  in  which  the 
other  permitted  itself  to  speak  of  a  literature  of  which 
it  knew  nothing,  and  of  a  great  writer  belonging  to  it 
whose  name  it  was  not  even  able  to  spell  correctly.  It 
began  by  describing  the  work  just  mentioned  as  "  a  heap 
of  unintelligible  jargon,  very  badly  translated  from  the 
German  original,  written,  it  seems,  by  G.  T.  Lessling." 
It  then  added  that  the  author  fell  infinitely  beneath  all 

1  Monthly  Review,  vol.  lxvi.  p.  307. 
88 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

criticism.  It  concluded  by  declaring  that  if  the  present 
time  were,  as  the  translator  asserted,  the  golden  age  of 
German  literature,  "it  appears  by  this  specimen  to  put 
on  a  very  leaden  appearance."1 

Nor  did  lapse  of  time  seem  to  raise  Lessing's  reputa- 
tion in  the  English  critical  world.  An  adaptation  of 
his  Minna  von  Barnhelm  was  brought  out  in  1786, 
under  the  title  of  'The  Disbanded  Officer.'  Like 
Shakespeare,  he  too,  it  appears,  had  come  to  have 
his  blind  and  bigoted  partisans.  Another  review  felt 
called  upon,  in  consequence,  to  fix  for  him  his  precise 
position.  "Though  Lessing,"  said  the  critic,  "has 
probably  little  claim  to  the  elevated  rank  that  has  been 
assigned  him  by  his  injudicious  admirers,  he  is  not,  we 
think,  entirely  destitute  of  merit.  .  .  .  We  are  our- 
selves acquainted  with  some  of  his  performances  which 
we  do  not  recollect  with  disgust."  The  reviewer  was 
disposed  to  conclude  that,  on  the  whole,  he  was  perhaps 
of  not  inferior  brilliancy  to  Colman.2  Of  criticism  of 
this  sort  it  is  hard  to  decide  whether  the  arrogance  or 
the  ignorance  be  the  greater.  In  no  case,  however, 
would  much  weight  have  been  attributed  to  the  opin- 
ions of  a  writer  of  whom  the  leading  exponents  of 
public  opinion  could  venture  to  speak  without  rebuke 
in  terms  like  these.  There  were,  doubtless,  a  number 
of  persons  then  in  England,  whom  the  reviewers  would 
have  felt  justified  in  calling  injudicious,  who  were 
impressed  by  the  views  Lessing  put  forth.  He  had, 
however,  to   wait  until   the   next   century   before  the 

1  Critical  Review,  vol.  Hi.  p.  2SC). 

»  English  lie  view,  vol.  viii.  (1780)  pp.  348-355. 

89 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

justice  of  these  views  was  widely  recognized  in  that 
country. 

But,  in  truth,  the  influence  of  the  greatest  names 
who  were  opposed  to  the  doctrine  of  the  unities  was 
impaired  by  the  fact  that  their  practice  did  not  har- 
monize with  their  precepts.  The  principles  they  incul- 
cated could  hardly  be  expected  to  control  the  conduct 
of  others  when  it  had  not  been  able  to  control  their 
own.  Farquhar  had  argued  against  the  necessity  of 
observing  the  unities;  nevertheless,  he  had  observed 
them.  Fielding  ridiculed  them;  in  his  practice  he 
respected  them.  Johnson  spoke  with  contempt  of  the 
reasons  given  for  regarding  them ;  in  the  only  play  he 
ever  produced,  the  action  was  limited  to  one  day  and 
to  one  place.  By  the  two  first-mentioned  writers  an 
insubordinate  spirit  was  sometimes  manifested  in  the 
way  they  obeyed  these  rules.  They  occasionally  went 
as  far  in  defiance  of  them  as  they  dared.  But  however 
loosely  they  observed  them,  the  fact  remains  that  they 
kept  up  the  pretence  of  observing  them.  Lessing,  like- 
wise, was  the  inspirer  of  a  revolution  in  his  own 
literature,  in  which  he  himself  took  no  part.  He  had 
demolished  the  reason,  or  rather  the  lack  of  reason, 
upon  which  the  support  of  the  unities  was  based ;  yet 
his  own  plays  are  written  in  accordance  with  their 
requirements.  The  subservience  of  writers  like  these 
to  practices  they  disliked  and  in  truth  despised  shows 
how  little  the  greatest  men  can  hold  their  own  against 
the  spirit  of  their  age.  Each  of  them  felt  the  tyranny 
of  a  public  opinion  which  caused  him  to  act  as  if  he 
believed  that  to  be  true  which  he  knew  to  be  false. 

90 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

The  doctrine  of  the  unities  was  not,  indeed,  broken 
down  by  elaborate  disquisitions  to  prove  that  it  was 
founded  upon  false  assumptions.  These,  undoubtedly, 
contributed  to  the  result.  When  the  movement  was 
under  full  headway,  they  did  much  to  hasten  the  fall  of 
the  fabric  which,  however,  they  had  not  been  the  first 
to  undermine.  Long  before  Johnson's  powerful  voice 
had  been  lifted  up  against  these  rules,  faith  in  them 
had  been  steadily  sapped  by  the  frequency  with  which 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare  were  acted.  During  the 
eighteenth  century,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind,  only  two 
places  in  London  had  ordinarily  the  right  to  exhibit  the- 
atrical pieces.  That  one  circumstance  forbade  the  pro- 
longed repetition  of  the  same  play.  Accordingly,  to  vary 
the  performances,  there  was  kept  on  hand  a  large  number 
of  dramas.  To  this  collection  of  stock  pieces  Shake- 
speare furnished  far  the  largest  number.  In  the  fre- 
quency with  which  plays  of  his  were  acted,  no  author, 
living  or  dead,  rivalled  the  great  dramatist.  This  was 
true  of  the  whole  century.  Rarely  was  it  the  case  that 
a  month  passed  without  the  performance  of  several  of 
his  pieces  at  one  or  both  of  the  two  houses.  Maimed 
and  mutilated  as  they  often  were,  they  could  not  be  so 
tortured  out  of  shape  as  to  hide  from  the  general  view 
the  superiority  of  the  dramatic  laws  he  obeyed  and  the 
dramatic  methods  he  followed.  His  so-called  irregular 
plays  interested  men,  inspired  them ;  the  so-called  regu- 
lar plays  of  others  made  them  yawn.  The  existence  of 
Shakespeare  was,  in  truth,  to  the  advocates  of  the  uni- 
ties a  gigantic  and  somewhat  unpleasant  fact.  He 
could  not  be  ignored ;  he  could  not  be  set  aside.     He 

91 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

had  violated  the  established  rules  of  the  drama  and  had 
succeeded.  They  conformed  to  them  religiously  and 
failed. 

Let  it  not  be  imagined,  however,  that  any  attempt 
is  made  here  to  deny  the  merit  of  modern  plays  which 
observe   the   unities,   or   to   maintain   that  a   powerful 
drama  cannot  be  produced  upon  the  lines  they  prescribe. 
Such  a  contention  would  be  only  repeating  on  the  side 
of  the  opponents  of  this  doctrine  the  erroneous  assump- 
tions which  its  advocates  put  forth.     He  who  ventures 
to  take  a  position  so  extreme  can  hardly  escape  a  feel- 
ing  of   serious   discomfort   if    called   upon,    in   conse- 
quence, to  decry  the  productions  of  Corneille,  Racine, 
and  Moliere,  —  to  say  nothing  of  some  of  the  most  bril- 
liant pieces  which   have   adorned   the   English   stage. 
Nor,  furthermore,  need  it  be  denied  that  there  are  con- 
ditions in  which  the  observance  of  the  unities  may  be 
a  positive  advantage.     Especially  will  this  be  the  case 
when  the  characters   are  few  and  all  the  incidents  of 
the  plot  are  directed  to  the  accomplishment  of  a  single 
result.     The  concentration  of  the  action   is   likely  to 
contribute,  in  such  pieces,  to  the  effect  of  the  represen- 
tation.    He  who  sets  out  to  imitate   the  simplicity  of 
the  Greek  drama  will  usually  find  himself  disposed  to 
adopt,  as  far  as  possible,  its  form.     "Within  its  limita- 
tions great  work  can   be  accomplished   by  the  drama 
which  regards  the  unities,  and,  to  some  extent,  it  will 
be  great  work  because  of  its  limitations. 

This  fact,  so  far  from  being  denied,  has  been  fully 
acknowledged  by  many  of  those  who  have  been  fore- 
most in   denying   the   obligatory   observance   of  these 

92 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

rules.  Furthermore,  it  has  not  unfrequently  been  acted 
upon.  Goethe,  for  instance,  not  only  disregarded  the 
unities,  but  characterized  them  as  "  the  stupidest  of  all 
laws."1  Yet  he  recognized  the  propriety  and  advan- 
tage of  conforming  to  them  under  certain  conditions. 
To  him  Byron,  in  1821,  dedicated  in  most  flattering 
terms  the  volume  containing  '  Sardanapalus, '  '  The  Two 
Foscari, '  and  '  Cain.'  In  the  preface  to  these  plays  the 
English  poet  avowed  the  most  thorough-going  devotion 
to  the  doctrine,  which  by  that  time  had  fallen  into  gen- 
eral disuse  and  disfavor  in  his  own  country.  Without 
the  unities,  it  was  his  opinion,  there  might  be  poetry, 
but  there  could  be  no  drama.  He  was  aware,  he  con- 
tinued, "of  the  unpopularity  of  this  notion  in  present 
English  literature;  but  it  is  not  a  system  of  his  own, 
being  merely  an  opinion,  which  not  very  long  ago  was 
the  law  of  literature  throughout  the  world,  and  is  still 
so  in  the  more  civilized  parts  of  it."  Goethe  was  a 
good  deal  affected  by  the  tribute  paid  him  in  the  dedi- 
cation, coming  from  the  man  for  whose  genius  he  had 
the  profoundest  admiration.  But  it  furnished  him  an 
equal  amount  of  amusement  —  as  it  did  also  Byron's 
reviewer,  Jeffrey  —  to  find,  at  this  late  time  of  day, 
the  one  author  who  had  set  all  ordinary  conventions  at 
defiance,  who  had  raged  at  the  restraints  imposed  by 
prevalent  social  beliefs  and  customs,  not  only  submit- 
ting meekly  to  shut  himself  up  inside  the  stone  walls 
of  the  unities,  but  insisting  that  it  was  only  within 
those  penitentiary  precincts  that  dramatic  virtue  could 
flourish.     Yet  while  Goethe  set  no  store  by  these  rules, 

1  Eckermann's  'Conversations  of  Goethe'  (under  1825). 

93 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

he  respected  them  wherever  he  found  them  of  service. 
Early  falling  under  the  influence  of  Shakespeare,  he 
had  followed  the  freedom  and  boldness  of  his  practice. 
But  when  he  imitated  the  Greek  tragedy,  as  in  his 
Iphigenie,  he  naturally  adopted  the  simplicity  of  its 
methods.  In  this  play  the  characters  are  but  five ;  the 
sole  end  aimed  at  is  the  restoration  of  the  priestess  to 
her  own  land.  Hence  the  action  does  not  need  to  take 
up  but  part  of  a  day,  and  finds  ample  place  for  its 
representation  in  the  grove  before  Diana's  temple. 

The  distinction  between  the  two  methods  is,  in  fact, 
fundamental.  The  drama  which  disregards  the  unities 
gives  the  widest  possible  scope  for  the  display  of  the 
different  passions  which,  by  turns,  agitate  the  heart 
and  control  the  conduct.  In  it  we  behold  men  operated 
upon  by  the  varying  impulses  and  stirred  by  the  vary- 
ing feelings  which  affect,  at  times,  the  lives  of  us  all. 
Their  behavior  is  constantly  modified  or  altered  by  new 
agencies  that  unexpectedly  thrust  themselves  into  the 
action  of  the  piece.  They  fall,  at  intervals,  under 
the  sway  of  opposing  motives.  But  the  drama  which 
regards  the  unities,  when  produced  in  accordance  with 
the  conditions  of  its  being,  lacks  complicated  situa- 
tions. It  is  not  so  much  complex  man  that  is  brought 
upon  the  scene,  as  man  under  the  storm  and  stress  of  a 
single  dominant  passion.  No  conflicting  interests  dis- 
tract our  attention  from  the  main  one.  Men,  as  we  see 
them  in  the  life  about  us,  are  not  so  single-minded. 
They  may  be  ambitious,  they  may  be  revengeful,  they 
may  be  jealous,  they  may  be  lover-like,  but  they  are 
also  sure  to  be  something  else ;  and  it  is  this  view  of 

94 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

their  nature  which  finds  natural  opportunity  for  its  full 
expression  in  the  ample  field  of  the  Shakespearean 
drama.  Yet  it  is  certainly  reasonable  to  believe  that 
one  phase  of  character  can  be  brought  out  much  more 
adequately  and  effectively,  if  that  can  be  made  the  one 
to  which  attention  is  wholly  directed. 

There  are  two  plays  in  our  literature,  both  written 
by  men  of  genius  on  the  same  subject,  which  illustrate 
the  distinction  between  these  two  methods  of  scenic 
representation.  They  are  here  of  special  interest,  be- 
cause in  the  development  of  their  plots  they  deal  with 
the  same  situation,  and  furthermore  introduce  some  of 
the  same  leading  personages.  In  the  case  of  the  two 
principal  ones  the  difference  of  portrayal  is  peculiarly 
noteworthy.  These  are  the  characters  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  as  set  forth  by  Shakespeare  and  by  Dryden. 
No  one,  of  course,  would  think  of  placing  the  latter 
author  by  the  side  of  the  former,  least  of  all  in  dramatic 
power:  the  comparison,  therefore,  cannot  fairly  be  ex- 
tended to  results,  but  must  be  limited  to  the  methods 
employed.  The  time  of  Shakespeare's  play  of  'Antony 
and  Cleopatra '  extends  over  a  period  of  ten  years.  The 
scene  is  laid  sometimes  in  Alexandria,  sometimes  in 
Rome,  and  occasionally  wanders  over  portions  of 
Europe  and  Asia.  Dryden's  play  —  styled  '  All  for 
Love  '  —  abounds  in  reminiscences  and  imitations  of 
that  of  his  great  predecessor.  But  the  time  purports 
to  be  limited  to  the  prescribed  twenty-four  hours.  In 
the  course  of  it  Antony  and  Cleopatra  are  both  repre- 
sented as  dying;  and  the  action  in  no  instance  is  carried 
on  outside  of  Alexandria. 

95 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

In  certain  ways  the  '  Antony  and  Cleopatra  '  of 
Shakespeare  is  one  of  the  most  astonishing  exhibitions 
of  the  many  astonishing  exhibitions  the  poet  has 
afforded  of  that  almost  divine  insight  and  intuition 
which  enabled  him  to  comprehend  at  a  glance  that 
complete  whole  of  which  other  men,  after  painful  toil, 
learn  but  a  beggarly  part.  The  student  of  ancient  his- 
tory can  find  in  the  play  occasional  disregard  of  precise 
dates.  He  can  discover,  in  some  cases,  a  sequence  of 
events  which  is  not  in  absolutely  strict  accord  with  the 
account  of  them  that  has  been  handed  down.  But 
from  no  investigation  of  records,  from  no  interpretation 
of  texts,  will  he  ever  arrive  at  so  clear  and  vivid  a 
conception  of  the  characters  of  the  actors  who  then  took 
part  in  the  struggle  for  the  supremacy  of  the  world. 
Nowhere  in  ancient  story  or  song  will  he  find,  as  here, 
the  light  which  enables  him  to  see  the  men  as  they  are. 
It  is  a  gorgeous  gallery  in  which  each  personage  stands 
out  so  distinct  that  there  is  no  danger  of  misapprehen- 
sion or  confusion  as  to  the  parts  they  fill.  Antony 
appears  the  soldier  and  voluptuary  he  was,  swayed  alter- 
nately by  love,  by  regret,  by  ambition,  at  one  moment 
the  great  ruler  of  the  divided  world,  at  the  next  reck- 
lessly flinging  his  future  away  at  the  dictation  of  a 
passionate  caprice;  Cleopatra,  true  to  no  interest,  fas- 
cinating, treacherous,  charming  with  her  grace  those 
whom  she  revolts  by  her  conduct,  luring  the  man  she 
half  loves  to  a  ruin  which  involves  herself  in  his  fate ; 
Octavius,  cool,  calculating,  never  allowing  his  heart  to 
gain,  either  for  good  or  evil,  the  better  of  his  head, 
showing  in  early  youth  the  self-restraint,  the  caution, 

96 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

the  knowledge  of  the  world  which  belong  to  advancing 
years ;  the  feeble  Lepidus,  striving  to  act  the  part  of  a 
reconciler  to  the  two  mighty  opposites,  with  whom  the 
irony  of  fate  has  thrown  him  into  conjunction:  these 
and  half-a-dozen  minor  characters  appear  painted  in 
clear  and  sharp  outline  on  the  crowded  canvass  of 
Shakespeare ;  while  in  attendance,  like  the  chorus  of  a 
Greek  tragedy,  stands  Enobarbus,  commenting  on  every 
incident  of  the  great  world-drama  which  is  acted  before 
his  eyes,  ominously  foreboding  the  declining  fortunes 
of  his  chief  in  the  moral  ruin  which  carries  with  it 
prostration  of  the  intellect,  and  pointing  to  the  inevi- 
table catastrophe  of  shame  and  dishonor  to  which  events 
are  hurrying. 

Not  a  single  trace  of  these  characteristics,  of  these 
conflicting  currents  of  thought  and  feeling,  is  indi- 
cated, or  even  suggested,  in  the  regular  drama  which 
Dryden  produced.  His  whole  play  is  made  to  turn 
upon  the  infatuation  for  Cleopatra  which  has  taken 
possession  of  the  Roman. commander,  and  against  the 
force  of  which  the  loyalty  of  Ventidius  struggles  to  no 
purpose.  There  are  few  things  said  and  fewer  things 
done  by  Antony  which  remind  us  of  the  great  general, 
of  the  dishonored  soldier,  of  the  fallen  master  of  half 
the  world.  He  is  little  more  than  a  sentimental  love- 
sick swain,  while  the  Egyptian  queen  has  lost  nearly 
every  one  of  the  characteristics  with  which  she  has 
impressed  the  ages,  and  is  exhibited  to  us  as  display- 
ing the  behavior  of  a  tender-hearted,  affectionate,  and 
wholly  romantic  school-girl.  Scott,  who  is  at  his  worst 
in  his  comparison  of  this  play  with  Shakespeare's, 
7  97 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

assures  us  that  its  plan  must  be  preferred  to  that  of  the 
latter's  on  the  score  of  coherence,  unity,  and  simplicity; 
and,  further,  that  as  a  consequence  of  the  more  artful 
arrangement  of  the  story,  the  unity  of  time,  like  that  of 
place,  so  necessary  to  the  intelligibility  of  the  drama, 
has  been  happily  attained.1 

It  is  the  last  assertion  alone  which  concerns  us  here. 
How  has  this  unity  of  time  been  attained?  It  has 
been  preserved  by  the  studious  suppression  of  all  ref- 
erence whatever  to  its  passage.  Events  are  crowded 
into  it  which  history  is  not  alone  in  assuring  the  scholar 
did  not  happen  in  the  space  assigned:  common  sense 
further  assures  everybody  they  could  not  possibly  so 
have  happened.  Numerous  minor  incidents,  however 
important,  are  not  necessary  to  be  considered  in  the 
examination  of  the  play.  But  in  this  one  day  Antony 
goes  out  to  fight  a  great  battle.  We  only  hear 
of  it;  there  is  no  representation  of  it.  On  his  re- 
turn he  reports  that  five  thousand  of  his  foes  have 
been  slain.  As  battles  go  in  this  world,  the  mere  de- 
spatching of  so  large  a  number  of  men  would  encroach 
heavily  upon  the  time  allotted.  Further,  at  a  later 
period  in  this  one  day,  the  Egyptian  fleet  sets  out  to 
attack  the  enemy.  Instead  of  fighting  the  Romans 
it  CToes  over  to  them.  Then  follow  the  consequences 
of  defeat  and  despair.  This  is  the  happy  attainment  of 
the  same  old  spurious  unity  of  time  which  cheats  our 
understanding  at  the  cost  of  our  attention.  Yet, 
though  marked  by  these  and  other  defects,  Dryden's 
play  is,  after  its  kind,  an  excellent  one.     There  are  in 

i  Scott's  Dryden,  vol.  v.  p.  288  (1808). 
98 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

it  passages  of  great  power,  which  will  explain  the  favor 
with  which  it  has  been  held  by  many.  Had  its  author 
been  gifted  with  dramatic  genius,  as  he  was  not,  he 
would  doubtless  have  made  it  far  more  effective.  But 
under  the  limitations  imposed  by  the  critical  canons  he 
accepted,  neither  he  nor  any  one  else  could  have  drawn 
the  picture  of  life  which  we  find  in  the  wonderful  corre- 
sponding creation  of  the  great  poet  of  human  nature. 

Men  felt  the  force  of  scenic  representation  of  this 
latter  sort  long  before  they  were  convinced  of  the  jus- 
tice of  its  claim  to  be  considered  art.  The  frequency 
with  which  Shakespeare's  plays  were  acted  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century  could  not  fail  to  produce  a  steadily 
deepening  impression  upon  the  beholders.  It  was  only 
a  question  of  time  when  the  truths  they  silently  taught 
as  to  the  value  of  his  methods  should  be  loudly  pro- 
claimed by  many.  It  was  only  a  question  of  a  little 
more  time  when  they  should  be  accepted  by  all  as  the 
fullest  exemplification  of  that  art  which  seeks  to  hold 
the  mirror  up  to  nature.  But  it  needed  transcendent 
power  like  his  to  emancipate  the  mind  from  the  tyranny 
of  rules  which  cramped  its  energy  and  restricted  its 
scope,  and  to  give  it  the  opportunity  of  becoming  the 
exponent  of  the  complex  life  we  lead  to-day.  This  is 
as  true  of  other  races  as  of  ours.  So  long  as  Shake- 
speare's plays  were  unknown  in  Germany,  Germany 
looked  upon  the  French  drama  as  the  representative  of 
the  highest  art.  It  accepted,  submissively,  the.  canons 
of  French  criticism.  Acquaintance  made  with  the 
work  of  the  former  was  rapidly  followed  by  repudia- 
tion of  the  practice  of  the  latter.     A  greater  triumph 

99 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

greater  because  achieved  under  much  more  unfavor- 

able  conditions  —  was  gained  by  the  English  dramatist 
in  the  land  where  the  doctrines  of  classicism  had  been 
held  and  practised  most  stoutly.  It  is  not  to  be  for- 
gotten that  it  was  under  the  banner  of  Shakespeare  that 
Victor  Hugo  and  his  allies  fought  and  won  the  battle 
of  Hernani,  and  freed  the  French  stage  from  the  tram- 
mels which  for  centuries  had  cramped  the  freedom  of 
its  movements. 

These  successive  conquests  are  justly  deemed  proofs 
of  the  excellence  of  his  dramatic  art.  But  a  further 
question  now  arises:  Was  he  himself  aware  of  its 
excellence?  Was  the  deliverance  he  wrought  due,  so 
far  as  he  personally  was  concerned,  to  accident  or  to 
design  ?  Did  Shakespeare,  in  disregarding  the  unities, 
disregard  them  because  he  was  ignorant  of  their  exist- 
ence, or  because  he  saw  that  in  most  instances  they 
were  unsuited  to  the  requirements  of  the  modern  stage  ? 
About  this  point  there  has  been  difference  or  uncer- 
tainty of  opinion  from  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury down  to  our  own  day.  The  Shakespeare  editor, 
Richard  Grant  White,  in  one  of  his  latest  essays,  in- 
sisted that  the  observation  of  the  unities  by  the  drama- 
tist, so  far  as  he  did  observe  them,  was  a  mere  matter 
of  convenience,  and  not  at  all  due  to  purpose.1  This  is 
one  of  the  very  few  positive  pronouncements  upon  the 
subject.  The  large  majority  of  critics  —  more  espe- 
cially in   the   eighteenth   century,  when   the   question 

i  Studies  in  Shakespeare,  p.  28.  Mr.  White  further  says,  that  in 
'Love's  Labor's  Lost '  the  unities  of  time  and  place  are  preserved  abso- 
lutely ;  but  the  time  of  the  play  cannot  be  less  than  two  days. 

100 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

excited  far  greater  interest  than  now  —  have  not  ven- 
tured to  decide  the  point.  Dr.  Johnson,  who  was  the 
first  of  Shakespeare's  editors  that  presumed  to  deny  the 
obligation  of  observing  the  unities,  proclaimed  himself 
as  distinctly  unwilling  to  express  a  definite  opinion. 
The  sagacity  of  Theobald,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
did  not  fail  him  here.  As  a  classical  scholar  he  took 
the  orthodox  classical  view.  But  he  had  the  insight  to 
see  that  Shakespeare's  disregard  of  the  unities  was  ow- 
ing not  to  ignorance  but  to  intention ;  though  he  drew 
from  the  dramatist's  words  some  unauthorized  infer- 
ences as  to  his  opinions.1  In  the  general  opprobrium 
which  fell  upon  Theobald  this  observation  of  his 
escaped  the  notice  of  nearly  every  one.  Steevens,  how- 
ever, who  had  a  genius  for  discovering  and  not  men- 
tioning what  his  predecessors  had  found  out,  announced, 
later,  that  he  was  disposed  to  believe  that  Shakespeare 
was  acquainted  with  the  unities,  and  had  disregarded 
them  consciously;  and  Malone,  unheeding  or  ignorant 
of  Theobald's  previous  assertion,  credited  Steevens  with 
originating  the  view. 

It  was  not,  however,  a  view  generally  entertained. 
The  opinion  on  this  point,  held  by  those  most  favorable 
to  the  dramatist,  was  rarely  confident,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  it  was  almost  invariably  guarded.  If  Shake- 
speare knew  of  the  existence  of  these  rules,  said  his 
advocates,  he  deliberately  broke  them;  if  he  did  not 
know  of  them,  he  showed  by  his  course  how  much  supe- 

1  See  Theobald's  note  in  vol.  ii.  p.  181,  of  his  Shakespeare,  edition 
of  1733,  upon  the  remark  found  in  act  v.  scene  2,  of  '  Love's  Labor '8 
Lost,'  that  a  twelvemonth  was  "  too  long  for  a  play." 

101 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

rior  to  art  is  genius.  The  attitude  generally  assumed 
by  the  critics  of  the  time  is  best  indicated  by  Johnson 
in  the  following  words:  "Whether  Shakespeare,"  he 
wrote,  "  knew  the  unities,  and  rejected  them  by  design, 
or  deviated  from  them  by  happy  ignorance,  it  is,  I 
think,  impossible  to  decide  and  useless  to  enquire."  1  Is 
it  so  useless  to  enquire  ?  Upon  the  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion depends  the  view  whether  the  poet  was  a  conscious 
artist,  or  whether  he  blundered  by  a  lucky  carelessness 
into  the  right  method  of  procedure.  This  is  certainly 
a  matter  of  some  importance  in  making  up  our  estimate 
of  the  man.  For  if  he  was  utterly  unacquainted  with 
these  rules,  the  assumption  of  Voltaire  cannot  be  suc- 
cessfully controverted  that  he  was  a  barbarian  of  genius, 
with  whom  inspiration  took  the  place  of  knowledge 
and  reflection. 

Again,  is  it  so  impossible  to  decide?  Certainly  a 
number  of  questions  at  once  present  themselves  to  the 
mind  which  render  improbable,  to  say  the  least,  this 
assertion  of  the  impossibility  of  reaching  a  conclusion. 
Is  it  likely  that  the  greatest  dramatic  genius  of  his  time 
should  have  been  ignorant  of  what  must  have  been  dis- 
cussed by  every  playwright  whom  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  meeting  daily?  Could  the  man,  who  built  one  of  his 
own  plays  upon  the  '  Promos  and  Cassandra '  of  Whet- 
stone, have  failed  to  read  the  attack  upon  the  English 
stage  for  its  disregard  of  the  unities  which  was  made  by 
Whetstone  in  the  preface  to  that  production?  Could 
the  intimate  friend  of  Ben  Jonson  have  been  unac- 
quainted with  Ben  Jonson 's  opinions,  bearing  in  mind, 

1  Johnson's  Shakespeare,  vol.  i.  Preface  (1765). 
102 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

as  we  must,  that  Ben  Jorison  was  not  one  of  those 
retiring  persons  who  are  in  the  habit  of  keeping  their 
opinions  to  themselves?  Two  of  the  comedies  of  that 
dramatist  — '  Every  Man  in  his  Humor  '  and  '  Every 
Man  out  of  his  Humor' — had  been  originally  per- 
formed by  the  company  of  which  Shakespeare  was  a 
member.  He  had  taken  a  leading  part  in  the  first  of 
them,  in  which  Jonson  strictly  observed  the  unities, 
and  must  have  read  the  second,  in  which  he  commented 
upon  them.  Would  he  not  have  been  likely  to  gain  a 
slight  inkling,  at  least,  of  the  nature  of  the  dramatic 
laws  which  his  contemporary  had  illustrated  in  act  and 
directly  discussed  in  words?  Such  inquiries  carry  with 
them  but  one  possible  answer.  Indeed,  if  there  be 
foundation  for  the  story  of  the  wit-combats  which 
Fuller  reports  as  having  taken  place  between  the  two 
leading  playwrights  of  the  time,  we  can  feel  reasonably 
confident  that  the  question  of  the  unities  was  one 
of  the  very  topics  about  which  controversy  raged  most 
fiercely. 

It  is  hard,  in  truth,  to  understand  how  any  editor  of 
'  King  Henry  V.'  can  miss  not  merely  the  recognition  of 
Shakespeare's  acquaintance  with  these  laws,  but  also 
the  perception  of  the  hostile  criticism  to  which  the 
violation  of  them  subjected  the  dramatist  even  then. 
This  particular  piece  appeared  near  the  close  of  the  six- 
teenth century.  That  was  the  time  in  which  Jonson 
was  setting  out  on  his  mission  of  bringing'  the  English 
stage  into  conformity,  as  far  as  possible,  with  the 
classical.  One  distinguishing  feature  of  this  play  is 
that    to   every   act    is    prefixed   a   prologue    delivered 

103 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

by  a  so-called  chorus.  The  ostensible  business  of 
the  prologue  is  to  inform  the  hearer  of  what  is  com- 
ing. But  it  does  something  more  than  impart  informa- 
tion. It  defends  the  romantic  drama,  or,  if  one  chooses 
to  put  it  in  another  way,  it  apologizes  for  the  practices 
to  which,  from  the  beginning,  the  romantic  drama  had 
been  addicted.  It  is  largely  a  reply  to  the  criticisms  of 
that  school  of  writers  of  which  we  have  already  had  a 
representative  in  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  Naturally  the 
chorus  takes  occasion  to  defend  the  constant  and  glar- 
ing violation  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place  which 
occur  in  the  course  of  the  play.  Its  observations  are 
very  much  of  the  same  sort  as  those  we  have  found 
made  later  by  Farquhar  and  Dr.  Johnson.  The  spec- 
tator is  asked  to  perform  the  very  easy  task  of  travelling 
with  his  mind.  He  is  to  suffer  himself  to  be  trans- 
ported in  imagination  over  periods  of  time  and  dis- 
tances of  space.  The  opening  prologue  prepares  us  for 
this  view.     In  it  we  are  told  that 

"  'T  is  your  thoughts  that  now  must  deck  our  Mugs, 
Carry  them  here  and  there  ;  jumping  o'er  times, 
Turning  the  accomplishment  of  many  years 
Into  an  hour-glass." 

In  the  prologue  to  the  second  act  the  same  idea  is 
repeated.  There  the  audience  is  specifically  requested 
to  "digest  the  abuse  of  distance."  The  scene  is  to 
be  transferred  from  London  to  Southampton,  and  it  is 
added,  — 

"  There  is  the  playhouse  now,  there  must  you  sit  : 
And  thence  to  France  shall  we  convey  you  safe, 
And  bring  you  back,  charming  the  narrow  seas 
To  give  you  gentle  pass." 

104 


THE  DRAMATIC'  UNITIES 

Again,  in  the  prologue  to  the  fifth  act,  those  of  the 

audience  who  are  acquainted  with  the  story  of  the  play 

are  desired 

"  To  admit  the  excuse 
Of  time,  of  numbers,  and  due  course  of  things, 
Which  cannot  in  their  huge  and  proper  life 
Be  here  presented." 

Words  of  this  sort  would  never  have  been  used,  had 
there  not  been  going  on  at  the  time  violent  discussion 
as  to  the  propriety  of  the  methods  of  representation 
then  followed  upon  the  English  stage.  The  writer  of 
the  prologue  was  not  seeking  to  impart  unneeded 
knowledge  to  others,  but  to  justify  the  course  adopted 
by  himself.  His  eye  was  fixed  not  upon  the  possible 
hearer  who  sought  information  about  the  coming  inci- 
dents of  the  play,  but  upon  the  very  tangible  critic  who 
objected  to  its  form. 

Nor  had  controversy  on  this  same  subject  died  out 
when,  towards  the  close  of  his  dramatic  career,  Shake- 
speare produced  '  The  Winter's  Tale.'  In  this  the 
defiance  of  conventional  rules  of  every  sort  was  carried 
to  its  farthest  extreme.  The  novel  from  which  it  was 
taken,  with  its  Bohemian  seacoast  and  its  island  shrine 
of  Delphos,  was  bad  enough ;  but  to  the  critics  of  the 
eighteenth  century  these  seemed  comparatively  venial 
offences  when  contrasted  with  the  numerous  other  viola- 
tions of  the  everlasting  proprieties  with  which  the  piece 
bristles.  It  must  be  conceded  that  the  play  carries  the 
liberty  of  the  romantic  drama  fairly  up  to  the  point  of 
license.  The  jumbling  together  of  ancient  times  and 
customs  and  countries  with  modern ;  in  the  same  piece 

105 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

Apollo  delivering  oracles  and  a  puritan  singing  psalms 
to  hornpipes;  a  pagan  religion  prevailing  while  a  Rus- 
sian emperor  reigns,  and  a  statue  has  just  been  exe- 
cuted by  the  rare  Italian  master,  Julio  Romano,  — 
these  and  other  not  dissimilar  details  would  tend  to 
make  the  conventional  classicist  shudder  and  the  most 
liberal-minded  hesitate.  Still,  by  nothing  were  the 
critics  of  this  school  so  shocked  as  by  the  disregard 
of  the  unities.  There  is  no  question  as  to  the  audacity 
with  which  this  is  manifested.  The  action  takes  place 
in  countries  far  apart.  A  child  born  at  the  beginning 
of  the  play  appears  on  the  stage  at  its  close  as  just 
married.  Compared  with  such  improprieties,  even  the 
grave-diggers'  scene  in  '  Hamlet '  was  pardonable.  The 
disgust  which  these  violations  of  the  rules  caused 
the  professional  critics  prevented  them  from  doing 
justice  to  the  skill  with  which  the  whole  piece  had 
been  constructed.  They  did  not  see  that  what  was  in 
art  strictly  impossible  had  been  accomplished  by  the 
genius  of  the  poet;  for  the  play  within  the  play  — 
apparently  annihilating  the  unity  of  action  —  had  been 
made  to  contribute  to  the  development  of  the  main  plot. 
At  any  rate,  the  work,  whether  well  or  ill  done,  was 
done  as  deliberately  as  it  was  audaciously.  An  exami- 
nation of  it  leaves  no  doubt  on  that  point.  In  his  own 
mind  the  dramatist  was  clearly  satisfied  with  the  wis- 
dom of  his  proceeding.  It  requires  more  dulness  than 
rightfully  belongs  even  to  the  dull  to  suppose  that 
Shakespeare  was  not  himself  aware  of  the  numerous 
ways  in  which  he  had  trampled  upon  beliefs  accepted 
by  many.     Yet   it   is   noticeable   that   the   only   point 

106 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

where  he  thinks  it  worth  while  to  justify  his  course  is 
in  the  allowance  of  sixteen  years  to  intervene  between 
the  third  and  fourth  acts.  This  was  the  one  thinsr 
which,  more  than  all  else,  would  subject  him  to  the 
censure  of  contemporary  criticism.  Again,  therefore, 
he  calls  in  the  chorus  to  his  aid.  This,  assuming  the 
character  of  Time,  puts  in  his  plea.  "  Impute  it  not  a 
crime,"  he  says, 

"  To  me  and  my  swift  passage  that  I  slide 
O'er  sixteen  years,  and  leave  the  growth  untried 
Of  that  wide  gap." 

If  your  patience  will  allow  this,  adds  the  chorus,  I 
shall  turn  my  glass  and  develop  the  plot  of  the  play 
as  if  you  had  slept  the  interval  between.  There  is  no 
mistaking  the  meaning  of  these  words;  it  is  idle  to 
pretend  that  Shakespeare  did  not  know  what  he  was 
doing.  What  possible  crime  could  be  imputed?  There 
was  but  one.     The  unity  of  time  had  been  violated. 

What  has  now  been  said  on  this  subject  is  sufficient 
to  show  that  to  whatever  cause  Shakespeare's  rejection 
of  the  unities  was  due,  it  was  not  due  to  his  lack  of 
acquaintance  with  them.1  But  there  is  more  direct 
evidence  even  than  that  already  brought  forward ;  and 
when  we  come  to  consider  the  date  of  its  appearance 
with  other  accompanying  circumstances,  it  will  be  found 
very  significant.  Disregard  of  the  unities  of  time  and 
place  may  spring  from  indifference  or  ignorance.     Not 

1  I  have  not  introduced  any  reference  to  the  "scene  individable  or 
poem  unlimited  "  of  scene  2  of  act  ii.  of  '  Hamlet,'  though  I  believe  the 
words  refer  to  the  unities;  but  they  are  susceptible  of  a  different  in- 
terpretation, and,  furthermore,  the  argument  is  not  in  need  of  their 
help. 

107 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

so  regard  for  them.  Unlike  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
that  can  never  come  save  by  observation.  No  man  ever 
conformed  to  these  laws  in  any  original  dramatic  com- 
position unless  he  did  it  consciously;  to  comply  with 
their  requirements  demands  unremitting  toil  and  atten- 
tion. Now,  of  the  thirty-seven  plays  of  Shakespeare 
there  are  two  in  which  he  observes  the  unities  faith- 
fully. One  of  these  — '  The  Comedy  of  Errors  '  —  may 
perhaps  be  thrown  out  of  consideration.  As  it  is  based 
upon  a  play  of  Plautus,  it  naturally  follows  his  treat- 
ment. Accordingly  there  would  be  nothing  antece- 
dently improbable  in  the  fact  that  the  modern  author 
should,  without  thought,  subject  himself  to  the  same 
limitations  as  did  the  ancient.  But  the  case  is  differ- 
ent in  the  other  of  these  two  plays,  —  '  The  Tempest. ' 
This  is  purely  Shakespeare's  own.  Any  original  of  it 
has  remained  as  undiscoverable  as  is  the  enchanted 
island  where  its  action  takes  place.  Like  '  The  Win- 
ter's Tale,'  it  is  conceded  to  belong  to  the  latest  period 
of  his  dramatic  activity.  Unlike  that  play,  it  is  re- 
markable for  its  strict  observance  of  the  unities.  Even 
a  superficial  examination  shows  that  this  could  not 
have  been  the  result  of  accident;  a  close  examination 
furnishes  unmistakable  proof  of  the  existence  of  thor- 
oughly meditated  design. 

The  action  of  the  comedy  is  represented  as  taking 
place  in  less  than  four  hours,  not  much  longer  than 
would  be  required  to  perform  it  upon  the  stage.  Not 
only  is  it  thus  limited,  but  there  is  a  perfectly  plain 
purpose  to  make  prominent  the  fact  that  it  is  so  limited. 
During  the  whole  progress  of  the  play  the  unity  of  time 

108 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

is  something  we  are  never  allowed  to  forget.  At  the 
very  beginning  our  attention  is  called  to  it ;  at  the  very 
end  we  are  reminded  of  it  again  and  again.  In  the 
second  scene  of  the  first  act  Prospero  asks  Ariel  what 
is  the  hour  of  the  day.  "Past  the  mid  season,"  is  the 
answer.  Two  o'clock  is  then  distinctly  specified  as  the 
precise  time;  the  interval  between  that  and  six,  it  is 
added,  must  by  both  be  spent  most  preciously.  Nor  in 
the  middle  of  the  play  is  the  time  allowed  to  slip  by 
unnoted.  In  the  first  scene  of  the  third  act  Miranda 
tells  Ferdinand  that  her  father  is  hard  at  study,  and 
that  for  three  hours  they  will  be  free  from  his  presence. 
At  the  end  of  the  same  scene  Prospero  says  that  he  has 
much  business  appertaining  which  must  be  accom- 
plished before  supper-time.  In  the  scene  following, 
Caliban  tells  Stephano  that  he  must  take  advantage  of 
the  opportunity  offered;  for  it  is  his  master's  custom 
to  sleep  in  the  afternoon.  At  the  opening  of  the  fifth 
act  Prospero  again  asks  Ariel  as  to  the  time.  "How  's 
the  day?"  is  his  question.  The  answer  given  is  that 
it  is  "on  the  sixth  hour;"  "at  which  time,"  continues 
Ariel,  "you  said  our  work  should  cease."  Not  long 
after,  Alonso  speaks  of  himself  as  having  been  wrecked 
"three  hours  since."  A  few  moments  later  he  dis- 
covers Ferdinand  and  Miranda  playing  at  chess,  and 
remarks  to  his  son  that  the  eldest  acquaintance  of  him- 
self and  his  companion  "cannot  be  three  hours."  To 
confirm,  still  further,  the  impression  of  the  brevity  of 
the  time,  the  boatswain,  on  his  appearance,  speaks  of  it 
having  been  but  "  three  glasses  "  —  that  is,  hours  —  since 
they  had  given  up  the  vessel  as  split.     There  are  other 

109 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

instances  of  the  same  general  character,  though  not  so 
distinctly  marked,  that  could  be  cited.  But  surely 
the  ones  given  are  enough.  Can  it  be  assumed  that  these 
unnecessary  references  to  the  time  —  what  Falstaff 
would  have  called  the  "  damnable  iteration  "  of  it  — 
are  a  mere  accident  ?  The  strict  observance  of  the  laws 
found  here,  be  it  remembered,  was  not  far  removed, 
as  regards  date,  from  the  lawless  '  Winter's  Tale. ' 
Different  impressions  will  be  produced  upon  different 
minds  by  the  same  fact.  To  me  it  conveys  satisfactory 
proof  that  Shakespeare,  when  he  set  out  to  produce 
'  The  Tempest, '  had  deliberately  determined  to  show  to 
the  adherents  of  the  classical  school  that  he  could  not 
only  write  what  they  called  a  regular  play  better  than 
they  could  themselves,  but  could  make  it  conform  even 
more  closely  than  they  generally  did  to  their  beloved 
unity  of  time. 

In  the  discussion  of  this  doctrine  there  now  remains 
one  point  that  merits  special  attention.  This  is  the 
prominence  which  the  passion  of  love  has  come  to 
assume  in  the  modern  drama,  especially  in  comedy.  It 
is  something  which  of  itself  renders  the  observance  of 
the  unities  utterly  unsuited  to  the  function  of  that 
drama  in  representing  with  fidelity  the  manners  of 
modern  life.  Often  discussed,  as  the  subject  has  been, 
it  has  never  met  with  the  consideration  to  which,  in 
this  respect,  it  is  entitled.  True,  the  remark  is  familiar 
that  the  difference  in  the  treatment  of  the  passion  of 
love  and  the  consequent  difference  in  the  position  and 
conduct  of  the  female  characters  constitute  a  distinction 
which  is  fundamental  between  the  ancient  and  the  mod- 

110 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

ern  drama.     The  attitude  taken  by  each  towards  woman 
is  not  merely  dissimilar,  it  is  practically  opposite.     The 
representation  of  love  in  any  genuine  sense  of  the  word 
belongs  to  modern  comedy  alone.     The  earlier  ancient 
comedy,  as  in  Aristophanes,  knows  nothing  of  it  at  all ; 
the  later  knows  only  a  spurious  form  of  it.     "What  goes 
under  that  name  is  almost   invariably  lust.     There  is 
in  none  of  the  ancient  plays  any  such  personage  as  the 
heroine,  in  the  sense  in  which  we  understand  the  word. 
The  woman  with  whom  the  hero  is  supposed  to  be  in 
love  is  usually  in  the  power  of  a  procurer  or  procuress. 
She  is  bought  and  sold  as  if  she  were  a  domestic  animal, 
^ven  in  the  few  instances  in  which,  from  the  outset, 
the  intent  is  honorable  marriage,  she  who  in  the  modern 
drama  would  occupy  the  foremost  place  continues   in 
the  ancient  to  keep  her  subordinate  position.     She  has 
no  control  over   her   own   destiny.     She  has    no  will, 
apparently,  save  that  of  those  to  whom  her  birth  or  the 
circumstances  of  her  fortune  have  made  her  subservient. 
For  any  action  likely  to  determine  the  fate  of  this  pas- 
sive instrument  in  the  hands  of  others,  the  space  of  a 
day  would  furnish  as  ample  time  as  that  of  a  year. 

Readers  of  Plautus  and  Terence  will  confirm  the 
truth  of  this  portrayal ;  and  it  is  needless  to  say  that  the 
plays  of  these  authors  represent  the  character  and  plots 
of  the  lost  Greek  comedy.  In  them  the  female  char- 
acters corresponding  to  the  heroines  of  the  modern 
drama  belong,  generally,  to  two  classes.  In  the  one, 
the  place  she  takes  is  purely  negative.  Her  business 
is  to  be  and  to  suffer,  but  not  to  do.  Often  she  never 
speaks  or  is  spoken  to;  she  is  simply  spoken  of.     One 

111 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

■  can  hardly  be  expected  to  feel  much  interest  in  this 
helpless  being,  who  never  says  anything  to  be  remem- 
bered, and  never  does  anything  to  be  admired.  In  the 
case  of  the  women  of  the  second  class,  the  one  who 
would  correspond  to  the  modern  heroine  frequently 
takes  an  active  part  in  the  play ;  but  her  intellect  gains 
at  the  expense  of  her  character.  She  is  almost  invari- 
ably a  courtesan.  In  her  it  is  a  mistress  the  hero  is 
seekinsr,  not  a  wife.  Furthermore,  if  female  characters 
are  introduced  who  chance  to  possess  virtue,  they  are 
usually  disagreeable.  It  is  the  shrew,  the  scold,  the 
jealous  wife,  the  intriguing  mother-in-law  that  comes 
upon  the  stage.  To  all  this  there  are  exceptions;  but 
they  are  too  few  to  counteract  the  prevailing  impression 
the  ancient  comedy  gives.  Deserving  of  admiration  in 
numerous  ways,  as  are  the  works  it  has  handed  down, 
it  is  not  its  portrayal  of  womanly  qualities  that  would 
recommend  it  to  the  modern  reader.  In  scarcely  a 
single  one  of  these  plays  is  there  any  attempt  to  depict 
the  spiritual  side  of  love  as  opposed  to  the  sensual.  In 
this  respect  Terence  is  perhaps  worse  than  Plautus. 
In  five  of  his  six  extant  plays  the  woman,  nominally 
an  object  of  affection,  has  been  either  debauched  or 
ravished  by  the  man  to  whom  she  is  finally  given  in 
marriage. 

Modern  comedy  reverses  completely  the  situation 
here  depicted.  In  it  the  heroine  occupies  a  position 
of  prominence.  She  stands  forth  wholly,  or  in  part,  as 
the  arbiter  of  her  own  destiny.  In  what  she  says  or 
does  we  are  as  much  interested  as  in  what  is  said  or 
done  by  the  hero.    Compared  with  her,  the  other  female 

112 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

personages  of  the  play  occupy  a  subordinate  place.  All 
this  is  due  not  merely  to  the  altered  position  of  woman, 
but  to  the  fact  that  the  passion  of  love  in  the  highest 
manifestation  of  the  feeling  has  come  to  be  the  principal 
subject  of  stage  representation.  This  was  an  inevitable 
result  of  the  general  line  of  development  which  the 
drama  took.  It  left,  first,  the  region  of  political  or 
religious  controversy  in  the  stormy  strife  of  which  its 
youth  was  nurtured,  gave  up  the  task  of  supporting  a 
side  or  advancing  a  cause,  and  passed  on  to  the  broader 
domain  of  history  and  legend  treated  from  the  point  of 
view  of  art  pure  and  simple.  Even  there  it  did  not 
tarry  long.  It  began  to  deal  more  and  more  with  the 
social  forces  that  operate  upon  the  lives  of  us  all.  The 
moment  this  became  the  prevailing  tendency,  the  pas- 
sion of  love  was  sure  in  the  vast  majority  of  instances 
to  show  itself  as  the  underlying  motive  upon  which  the 
unfolding  of  the  plot  turned.  This  was  a  course  of 
development  impossible  to  the  ancient  comedy.  In  that 
the  helplessness  of  the  heroine,  or  of  her  who  should 
have  been  the  heroine,  in  disposing  of  her  own  fate, 
and  the  conditions  which  encompassed  her  in  the  social 
life  then  existing,  cut  off  the  possibility,  and  perhaps 
the  idea  of  a  reciprocal  interchange  of  lofty  sentiments 
of  love,  and  limited  the  representation  of  the  passion 
itself  largely  to  its  purely  sensual  aspect.  A  sugges- 
tion of  this  same  state  of  things,  arising  from  the  same 
cause,  can  be  found  also  in  the  Elizabethan  drama. 
But  there  is  not  enough  of  it  to  efface  the  picture  of 
love  in  its  highest  form,  divested  of  all  impurity,  exalt- 
ing the  woman  and  ennobling  the  man. 
8  113 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

This  description  of  the  difference  between  the  ancient 
and  the  modern  drama  undoubtedly  applies  to  comedy 
rather  than  to  tragedy.  In  the  latter  there  are  both 
room  and  reason  for  the  operation  of  many  other  feel- 
ings than  that  of  love.  Revenge,  remorse,  envy, 
hatred,  pride,  ambition,  and  scores  of  similar  states 
of  mind  can  easily  be  made  the  leading  motive,  about 
which  the  interest  of  the  play  centres.  Any  one  of 
them  may  constitute  the  principal  cause  of  the  calam- 
ities which  attend  the  development  of  the  plot  or  wait 
upon  its  conclusion.  But  it  is  otherwise  with  plays 
which  are  bound  by  the  laws  of  their  being  to  end 
fortunately.  In  them  the  subject  of  love  was  certain, 
in  time,  to  form  the  groundwork  of  the  large  majority 
of  the  themes  selected  for  dramatization.  The  very 
nature  of  the  feeling  made  such  a  result  inevitable.  It 
is  the  most  universal  of  passions.  It  appeals  to  the 
widest  circle  of  sympathies.  It  arouses  the  keenest 
interest  in  men  of  all  ages  and  in  minds  of  every  class. 
So  wide,  indeed,  is  the  sweep  of  the  feeling,  so  power- 
ful is  the  hold  it  has  upon  us  all,  that  when  once  we 
find  ourselves  acquainted  with  the  characters  in  the 
raggedest  kind  of  a  love-story,  we  cannot  get  wholly 
rid  of  the  desire  to  see  what  becomes  of  them  at  last. 

In  this  respect  there  has  been  a  close  analogy  between 
the  development  of  the  drama  and  of  the  novel.  Both 
of  them  have  gone  through  what  are  essentially  the 
same  changes.  The  resemblance  extends,  indeed,  to 
the  feelings  with  which  the  result  of  these  changes  has 
been  at  times  regarded.  In  the  case  of  the  novel  the 
old  tale  of  chivalry  or  adventure  gradually  gave  way  to 

114 


THE  DRAMATIC    UNITIES 

the  modern  tale  of  society  with  the  story  of  love  as  the 
leading  feature.  The  other  was  not  lost,  to  be  sure; 
but  it  sank  to  an  inferior  position.  This  condition  of 
things  has  been  far  from  agreeable  to  some  writers.  A 
frantic  effort  has  been  put  forth  occasionally  by  the 
experimental  novelist  to  get  rid  of  the  everlasting  youth 
and  maiden,  to  substitute  some  other  interest  for  that 
of  their  sorrows  and  joys.  He  feels  a  sense  of  mortifi- 
cation and  irritation  that  the  world's  regard  should 
gather  about  the  incidents  of  the  story  only  so  far  as 
they  bear  upon  the  fortunes  of  two  insignificant  beings, 
whose  sole  claim  to  attention  is  that  they  care  enough 
for  each  other  to  endure  suffering  and  even  encounter 
death  rather  than  undergo  separation.  Yet  efforts  to 
introduce  other  motives  have  not  often  met  with  much 
favor.  It  is  in  but  few  instances  that  they  continue  to 
please.  It  is  fairly  safe  to  say  that  a  general  adoption 
in  the  novel  of  other  interests  than  that  of  love  will 
meet  with  permanent  success  about  the  time  a  radical  re- 
construction of  human  nature  has  been  carried  through 
to  a  successful  completion. 

Naturally,  the  playwrights  of  the  Elizabethan  age 
were  quick  to  seize  upon  this  theme.  They  recognized 
the  possibilities  that  lay  in  appealing  to  feelings  pos- 
sessing an  interest  so  universal.  Love  speedily  came  to 
take  the  place  of  prominence  in  scenic  representation. 
In  some  plays  it  formed  the  exclusive  subject  of  atten- 
tion. It  entered,  more  or  less,  into  those  that  set  out 
to  deal  with  other  motives.  The  use  made  of  it,  the 
predominant  position  it  occupied,  was  noticed  by  Bacon 
in  one  of  his  essays  which  was  first  published  in  1612. 

115 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

"The  stage,"  he  wrote,  "is  more  beholding  to  love  than 
the  life  of  man.  For  as  to  the  stage,  love  is  ever 
matter  of  comedies,  and  now  and  then  of  tragedies:  but 
in  life  it  doth  much  mischief,  sometimes  like  a  siren, 
sometimes  like  a  fury."  It  was  not  the  sort  of  siren 
that  would  ever  have  allured  Bacon,  nor  the  sort  of  fury 
that  would  have  threatened  his  peace.  In  him  the 
emotional  nature,  never  very  strong,  was  stifled  by  the 
excessive  development  of  the  intellectual;  and  though 
his  mental  greatness  would  enable  him  to  comprehend 
fully  the  power  which  this  particular  passion  exerted 
over  the  lives  of  men,  it  could  not  give  him  any  sym- 
pathy with  its  spirit.  But  the  remark  is  interesting  as 
the  comment  of  one  of  the  acutest  of  observers  upon  the 
extent  to  which  love  had  taken  possession  of  the  stage 
in  his  day. 

Nor  did  its  progress  cease  with  the  progress  of  time. 
It  tended  to  intrude  itself  increasingly  into  tragedy, 
much  to  the  disgust  of  the  adherents  of  the  purely 
classical  school.  This  became  especially  characteristic 
of  the  French  drama  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Love 
took,  then,  complete  possession  of  their  tragic  stage, 
and  from  that  extended  its  sway  over  the  English. 
The  cause  of  its  rapid  spread  is  clear.  In  both  coun- 
tries the  popular  taste  demanded  it.  The  consequence 
was  that  men  began  to  find  unsatisfactory  those  pieces 
in  which  it  did  not  appear.  The  influence  of  this  feel- 
ing was  fully  exemplified,  as  we  shall  see  later,  in  the 
changes  that  were  made  in  Shakespeare's  plays  to  fit 
them,  in  this  respect,  to  the  taste  of  the  times.  From 
them,  as  originally  written,  the  passion  of  love  was  by 

116 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

no  means  absent;  but  it  had  never  been  given  the  place 
of  absolute  monarch.  But  the  men  who  criticised  him 
for  his  lack  of  art,  and  remodelled  his  dramas  to  make 
them  conform  to  it,  foisted  the  subject  into  tragedies 
from  which  he  had  properly  left  it  out.  The  most 
flagrant  example  of  this  was  the  alteration  of  '  King 
Lear.'  Yet  the  introduction  into  it  of  love  was  one  of 
the  reasons  why  this  abominable  version  so  long  held 
the  stage  to  the  exclusion  of  the  original.  By  eliminat- 
ing the  French  king,  the  adapter  was  enabled  to  repre- 
sent a  mutual  affection  as  existing  between  Edgar  and 
Cordelia.  He  thus  lightened  the  tragic  atmosphere 
of  the  play  by  the  alien  interest  of  a  love-story,  and, 
furthermore,  of  a  love-story  that  ended  happily. 

No  one  will  pretend  that  a  love-story  is  essential  to 
comedy.  As  we  have  seen,  the  passion  plays  a  far  less 
important  part  in  the  ancient  drama  than  in  the  mod- 
ern, besides  being  there  of  a  much  more  debased  type. 
From  the  former,  even  in  its  later  period,  it  is  some- 
times absent  altogether.  One  of  the  most  famous  of 
the  plays  of  Plautus  is  the  Captivi.  By  many  it  has 
been  regarded  as  his  very  best.  Yet  in  it  not  a  single 
female  character  appears ;  not  a  word  is  said  about  love 
between  the  sexes.  It  is  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  that 
the  prologue  claims  for  it  that  there  are  in  it  no  licen- 
tious lines  unfit  to  be  uttered.  The  epilogue  further 
adds  that  the  play  is  founded  upon  pure  manners,  that 
there  is  in  it  no  wenching,  no  intriguing,  no  exposure 
of  a  child.  Still  such  plays  are  exceptional  in  the  later 
ancient  comedy,  and  comparatively  little  known  to  the 
modern.     In  the  latter,  from  almost  the  very  outset, 

117 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

the  knowledge  that  interest  could  be  most  easily  aroused 
in  the  audience  by  the  introduction  of  a  love-story  put 
a  pressure  upon  the  writer  from  which  he  could  with 
difficulty  escape.  We  can  see  the  working  of  this  influ- 
ence in  '  The  Comedy  of  Errors. '  The  Mencechmi  of 
Plautus,  upon  which  it  is  founded,  shows  no  female 
characters  but  those  of  the  courtesan  and  the  jealous 
wife.  When  the  English  dramatist  came  to  adopt  the 
plot,  he  modified  materially  the  tone  of  the  whole 
play.  A  number  of  new  personages  were  introduced. 
None  of  them  appeal  to  the  modern  reader  more  than 
Luciana.  If  Shakespeare  added  to  the  farcical  element 
of  the  comedy  by  furnishing  the  two  closely  resembling 
masters  with  two  servants  possessing  the  same  char- 
acteristic, he  added  to  its  human  interest  by  making 
Antipholus  of  Syracuse  fall  in  love  with  the  sister  of 
his  brother's  wife. 

There  were,  undoubtedly,  authors  of  the  time  who 
looked  with  little  favor  upon  the  place  the  story  of  love 
had  come  to  take  in  dramatic  representation.  This 
dislike  was  in  part,  due  to  the  deference  paid  to  the 
spirit  that  animated  the  ancient  drama.  This  feeling 
was  strengthened  in  some  cases,  however,  by  the  con- 
scious inability  to  portray  the  passion  successfully. 
The  subject  is  6f  universal  interest,  to  be  sure,  but  its 
delineation  is  often  attended  with  peculiar  difficulty. 
Unless  conveyed  with  exceptional  skill  and  force,  the 
expression  of  intense  feeling,  where  there  is  no  neces- 
sary sympathy  with  it  on  the  part  of  the  hearer,  tends 
to  excite  ridicule  rather  than  respect.  The  fact  is 
constantly  exemplified  in  life.     Under  ordinary  condi- 

118 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

tions  the  perusal  of  love-letters  in  which  one  has  no 
personal  interest  arouses  little  other  feeling  than  that 
of  amusement.  Their  extravagance,  however  real  to 
the  writer,  seems  only  laughable  to  him  who  reads  them 
in  cold  blood.  Men  who  felt  themselves  unable  to 
depict  the  passion  with  felicity  accordingly  yielded  with 
reluctance  to  the  pressure  in  this  direction  which  the 
wishes  of  the  audience  exerted.  With  the  ancients 
worthy  of  closest  imitation,  love,  the}7  argued,  occupies 
an  inferior  position.  Why  should  not  their  example 
be  followed?  The  dramatists,  so  thinking,  acted,  as 
far  as  they  were  permitted,  upon  this  principle.  Wher- 
ever possible,  other  interests  were  substituted.  No 
reader  of  Ben  Jonson  can  fail  to  recognize  the  incon- 
spicuous and  almost  contemptible  part  which  love, 
or  rather  the  semblance  of  love,  plays  in  his  comedies. 
The  neglect  of  it  as  a  leading  motive  in  one  way  ren- 
dered easier,  as  we  shall  see,  the  task  of  conforming  to 
the  unities.  It  has,  however,  affected  the  permanence 
of  his  reputation.  The  lack  of  the  interest  of  a  love- 
story  in  his  plays  has  been  one  cause  of  the  steady 
decline  of  his  popularity  since  the  seventeenth  century, 
just  as  the  presence  of  it  in  the  phays  of  his  greater 
contemporary  has  been  an  element  which  has  constantly 
contributed  to  the  increasing  favor  in  which  he  has 
been  held. 

Shakespeare  himself  could  hardly  have  been  ignorant 
of  the  skill  and  power  with  which  he  depicted  the  pas- 
sion. Of  the  extent  to  which  he  made  use  of  it  to 
enhance  interest  there  is  no  question.  Not  a  single 
comedy  came  from  his  pen  in  which  it  did  not  either 

119 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

furnish  the  predominant  motive  or  form  a  subordinate 
attraction.  In  every  one  of  them  is  a  love-story,  and, 
unlike  that  of  many  of  his  contemporaries,  it  is  a  love- 
story  almost  invariably  of  a  peculiarly  pure  and  delicate 
kind.  But  in  the  representation  of  the  feeling  he  did 
not  limit  himself  to  comedy.  Love  was  rightly  reck- 
oned by  him  as  one  of  the  passions  susceptible  of  tragic 
treatment,  though  he  did  not  fall  into  the  mistake  of 
the  French  dramatists  in  making  it  extend  to  all  plays 
of  this  character.  Yet  to  two  of  his  greatest  it  con- 
tributes a  melancholy  undertone.  Of  still  another  it  is 
much  more  than  a  part.  It  is  the  whole.  'Romeo  and 
Juliet,'  as  Lessing  justly  said,  is  the  one  tragedy  in  the 
world  at  which  love  itself  has  labored.  There  is  in  it 
no  gallantry,  no  intrigue.  From  beginning  to  end  the 
interest  concentrates  itself  upon  the  fortune  and  fate  of 
the  two  whose  mutual  passion  gives  a  brightness,  brief 
as  the  lightning  flash,  to  the  dark  background  of  civil 
strife  amid  which  it  is  born,  and  whose  death  is  the 
sacrifice  paid  for  the  restoration  of  civil  peace. 

The  foregoing  facts  make  clear  that  Shakespeare 
gladly  welcomed  the  delineation  of  love  as  the  subject 
of  scenic  representation.  But  it  is  equally  evident  that 
the  stage  conditions  under  which  the  passion  can  be 
most  successfully  portrayed  had  not  escaped  his  atten- 
tion. As  soon  as  love  was  made  the  principal  interest 
in  the  modern  drama,  difficulties  of  a  peculiar  character 
beset  him  who  aimed  to  observe  the  unities,  —  that  is, 
if  that  drama  were  to  live  up  to  its  professed  ideal  of 
holding  the  mirror  up  to  nature.  It  is  more  correct  to 
say  they  beset  the  writer  of  comedy.     Of  this  it  is  an 

120 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

essential  characteristic  that  the  conclusion  shall  be 
happy.  Under  such  a  limitation  the  play,  in  nineteen 
cases  out  of  twenty,  is  certain  to  end  with  either  a  be- 
trothal or  a  marriage.  But  when  the  time  of  the  action 
is  limited  to  a  single  day,  obstacles  arise  at  once  in  the 
way  of  reaching  satisfactorily  a  termination  of  this  nature. 
, —  Two  methods  only  have  been  taken  or  can  be  taken 
by  the  writer  to  extricate  himself  from  the  perplexities 
produced  by  conforming  to  the  unities.  The  obstacles 
are  either  avoided  altogether,  or  they  are  evaded.  In 
the  former  case  the  series  of  events  are  so  carefully 
arranged  beforehand  that  we  learn  all  the  past  proceed- 
ings from  the  speeches  of  the  actors.  We  are  simply 
called  upon  to  be  present  at  the  denouement  to  which 
weeks  of  previous  preparation  have  been  tending.  This 
is  a  thing  that  can  be  done,  and  has  often  been  bril- 
liantly clone,  though  it  usually  involves  excessive  pains 
on  the  part  of  the  author.  That  requirement  is  indeed 
one  of  its  main  disadvantages.  The  strength  of  the 
writer  must  be  largely  spent  in  devising  ingenious  con- 
trivances for  bringing  about  the  result  at  which  he 
aims.  But  more  than  that,  it  gives  him  no  adequate 
field  for  the  display  of  his  powers.  It  sacrifices,  in 
particular,  what  are  frequently  the  most  effective  scenes 
in  representation,  the  gradual  development  of  mutual 
passion,  the  removal  or  overthrow  of  the  obstacles  that 
stand  in  the  way  of  the  union  of  the  hero  and  the 
heroine.  Hence  it  is  that  brilliant  plays  of  this  kind, 
such,  for  instance,  as  '  Love  for  Love '  and  '  The 
Rivals,'  appeal  to  the  intellect  much  more  than  they 


do  to  the  feelings. 


121 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

In  the  other  case  the  obstacles  created  by  the  obser- 
vance of  the  unities  are  both  disingenuously  and  in- 
artistically  evaded.  All  the  circumstances  that  lead  to 
betrothal  and  marriage  are  crowded  into  the  space  of  a 
day  or  part  of  a  day.  Rapid  work  of  this  kind  is  not 
absolutely  impossible  in  real  life,  but  it  is  highly  im- 
probable ;  and  the  writer  who  draws  his  subjects  from 
real  life  has  no  business  to  venture  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  probable.  In  truth,  such  a  course  as  the  one 
indicated  is  so  repugnant  to  our  sense  of  propriety  that 
the  portrayal  of  it  must  be  carefully  disguised  in  order 
to  prevent  it  from  revolting  the  feelings.  In  the  ancient 
comedy  there  was  no  such  necessity.  The  audience 
would  have  been  prepared,  had  it  been  necessary,  to 
see,  without  protest,  the  future  of  the  man  or  maiden 
arranged  for  with  little  or  no  consultation  of  their 
inclinations.  But  this  is  no  longer  possible.  In  mod- 
ern life  young  people  are  not  disposed  of  in  marriage 
without  at  least  going  through  the  form  of  asking 
their  consent.  Their  consent  implies  that  there  should 
be  time  enough  for  the  two  persons  chiefly  concerned 
to  make  each  other's  acquaintance,  and  to  experience 
sensations  to  which  they  can  feel  justified  in  giving  the 
name  of  liking,  if  not  of  love.  But  if  the  method 
under  consideration  is  followed,  all  these  sensations,  in 
the  drama  which"  observes  the  unities,  must  be  felt  in 
the  space  of  twenty-four  hours  or  less.  In  that  time 
two  persons,  who  have  never  seen  each  other  previously, 
must  develop  a  wild  desire  to  spend  the  rest  of  their 
lives  together. 

Now  it  might  seem  that  no  modern   author  would 

122 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

venture  to  take  the  course  just  indicated.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  will  be  found  followed  in  some  of  our  most 
celebrated  comedies.  The  gross  violation  of  propriety 
it  implies  frequently  fails  to  excite  disapprobation, 
because  the  attention  is  directed  to  some  other  interest 
in  the  play  than  that  of  the  one  which  it  nominally 
aims  to  represent.  To  illustrate  how  the  observance  of 
the  unities  works  in  practice,  let  us  select  for  exami- 
nation two  noted  specimens  of  this  class  of  dramatic 
compositions  taken  from  different  periods  in  our  litera- 
ture. The  first  is  the  work  of  Ben  Jonson,  the  great 
apostle  who  preached  to  a  careless  age  the  duty  of 
obeying  these  laws.  It  is  the  one  called  '  Every  Man 
in  his  Humor,'  which  there  has  already  been  occasion 
to  mention.  This  play  it  is  which  Swinburne  assures 
us,  he  is  forced,  in  spite  of  his  unqualified  love  for  the 
greater  poet,  to  characterize  as  "altogether  a  better 
comedy  and  a  work  of  higher  art  than  the  '  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor. '  "  x  However  true  this  may  be,  there 
is  no  question  that  in  many  respects  '  Every  Man  in  his 
Humor '  is  a  brilliant  production.  The  attack  con- 
tained in  its  prologue  upon  those  who  had  neglected  to 
observe  the  unities  of  time  and  place  has  already  been 
given.  But  later  in  the  same  prologue  occurs  an  asser- 
tion which  is  for  us  here  of  special  moment.  Jonson 
declares  that  the  words  and  characters  in  this  play  are 
such  as  comedy  would  choose  when  she  would  show  an 
image  of  the  times.  His  satisfaction  with  what  he  had 
done  cannot,  therefore,  be  questioned.  It  is  accord- 
ingly legitimate  to  test  his  conception  of  what  consti- 

1  Swinburne's  Study  of  Shakespeare,  p.  121  (American  edition),  1880. 

123 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

tutes  truth  to  life  by  an  analysis  of  the  plot  of  this 
work.  From  that  we  shall  discover  how  just  is  Swin- 
burne's praise  of  its  art,  how  accurately  Jonson  has 
succeeded,  to  use  his  own  words,  in  showing  us  an 
image  of  the  time. 

The  scene  of  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humor '  lies  in  Lon- 
don or  its  immediate  suburbs,  and  the  whole  action 
takes  place  within  the  compass  of  a  few  streets.  The 
time  is  just  eight  hours.  The  hero  of  the  piece,  young 
Knowell,  is  the  son  of  an  indulgent  but  somewhat 
anxious  father,  who  loves  him  sincerely,  and  for  whom 
he  in  return  expresses  and  feels  genuine  affection.  He 
leaves  his  parent's  house  early  in  the  play  in  order  to 
keep  an  appointment  with  his  friend  Wellbred,  who  is 
represented  as  the  possessor,  like  himself,  of  high  quali- 
ties of  head  and  heart.  Their  place  of  meeting  is  the 
Old  Jewry.  There,  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  act, 
young  Knowell  sees  for  the  first  time  the  sister  of  his 
friend.  At  least,  no  previous  meeting  is  indicated  or 
suggested.  He  immediately  falls  in  love  with  her,  and 
she  goes  through  similar  motions  or  emotions  in  refer- 
ence to  him.  Through  the  agency  of  the  brother  a 
marriage  is  arranged,  the  two  proceed  to  elope,  and  are 
united  without  the  knowledge  and  consent  of  the  rela- 
tives most  directly  and  deeply  interested.  At  the  end 
of  the  play  they  make  their  appearance  as  man  and 
wife.  All  this  courtship  and  matrimony  is  therefore 
carried  on  and  concluded  in  the  space  of  four  hours. 
There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the  father  would 
have  opposed  the  son's  choice,  though,  undoubtedly,  in 
real  life,  if  possessed  of  ordinary  sense,  he  would  have 

124 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

opposed  this  precipitate  action.  But  even  with  the 
result  regarded  as  a  most  desirable  one,  the  hero  of  the 
piece  has  been  guilty,  not  merely  of  an  act  of  superla- 
tive folly,  but  also  of  a  gross  breach  of  filial  respect  and 
duty.  No  one  needs  to  be  told  that  we  are  not  shown 
here  an  image  of  the  times  in  the  sixteenth  century  or 
in  any  century  before  or  since.  Men  have  done  things 
as  foolish  and  graceless  as  the  actions  just  described, 
but  not  the  kind  of  men  that  have  been  here  brought 
upon  the  stage. 

This  is  no  solitary  instance.  In  a  number  of  Jon- 
son's  plays  a  similar  condition  of  things  is  depicted. 
Two  persons,  who  have  never  seen  each  other  before, 
meet  and  agree  to  marry  at  once.  But  instead  of  con- 
fining ourselves  to  this  period,  let  us  take  another 
example  from  a  piece  which  holds,  and  justly  holds,  a 
place  as  one  of  the  favorite  comedies  of  our  dramatic 
literature.  It  is  Goldsmith's  play  of  '  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,'  which  was  produced  in  1773.  In  this  the 
author,  following  the  practice  of  his  age,  crowded  all 
the  events  into  a  few  hours.  In  the  conduct  of  them, 
however,  there  is  some  respect  paid  to  human  nature 
and  to  the  ordinary  customs  of  life.  The  natural  objec- 
tions to  precipitate  action  are  obviated  as  far  as  pos- 
sible. Two  persons  meet,  who  have  never  met  before, 
to  be  sure,  but  they  are  dutifully  prepared  to  fall  in 
love  with  each  other  at  first  sight,  so  far  as  that  result 
can  be  secured  beforehand  by  parents  and  guardians. 
Accordingly,  it  does  not  come  upon  the  mind  with  any 
particular  sense  of  shock  to  find  that  the  hero  and  the 
heroine  have  managed  in  less  than  half  a  day  to  fall  in 

125 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

love  with  each  other  after  a  fashion,  and  are  in  con- 
sequence disposed  to  encounter  the  risks  of  matrimony. 
Nevertheless  the  absurdity  exists.  The  reason  we  are 
not  struck  by  it  is  that  we  are  diverted  from  any  con- 
sideration of  the  central  improbability  by  the  other 
incidents  of  the  play. 

No  situations  in  the  least  resembling  the  two  just 
described  can  be  found  in  Shakespeare.  The  impro- 
priety of  such  a  representation  of  life  was  as  apparent 
to  him  as  it  is  to  us.  I  have  already  tried  to  make  it 
clear  that  '  The  Tempest '  was  undoubtedly  written  by 
him  with  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  doctrine  of  the  unities; 
and  that  he  carried  their  observance  through  so  un- 
flinchingly that  the  time  of  the  action  is  scarcely  longer 
than  the  actual  time  of  representation.  It  is  therefore 
interesting  to  examine  the  method  he  took  to  meet  the 
difficulties  which  confronted  every  writer  who  set  out 
to  comply  with  these  artificial  rules,  how  carefully  he 
made  his  action  in  this  particular  conform  to  the  natural 
feelings  of  the  auditor  or  reader.  In  the  first  place, 
Ferdinand  and  Miranda  belong  to  the  station  in  life  in 
which  the  wishes  of  the  parties  immediately  concerned 
were  rarely  consulted  then,  and  are  rarely  even  now. 
They  are  of  the  class  of  rulers,  and  royal  marriages  are 
made  to  establish  or  cement  alliances  between  states 
and  not  between  persons.  There  is  therefore  nothing 
antecedently  improper  or  improbable  in  the  union.  Yet 
even  in  so  doing,  Shakespeare  defers  to  the  practices 
which  prevail  in  real  life.  Ferdinand  pledges  his  faith 
to  Miranda  under  the  impression  that  his  father  had 
perished,   and   that  he   himself,  in   consequence,   is  a 

126 


THE  DRAMATIC   UNITIES 

perfectly  free  agent.  But  the  dramatist  is  not  content 
with  mere  conformity  to  these  conventions.  He  not 
only  makes  the  hero  and  the  heroine  personally  attrac- 
tive, so  as  to  engage  their  inclinations  to  each  other  at 
first  sight,  but  he  also  calls  in  to  his  help  the  aid  of 
that  potent  magic  which  operates  upon  all  the  other 
characters  in  the  play.  Prospero  himself  attributes  this 
rapid  falling  in  love  to  the  agency  of  Ariel.  When  he 
sees  how  Miranda  is  impressed  by  the  sight  of  Ferdi- 
nand, he  adds,  — 

"  Spirit,  fine  spirit !  I  '11  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this." 

A  little  later,  after  making  the  following  comment  on 

the  lovers,  — 

"  At  the  first  sight 

They  have  changed  eyes, "  — 

he  goes  on  to  say,  — 

"  Delicate  Ariel, 
I  '11  set  thee  free  for  this." 

In  the  two  plays  of  Jonson  and  Shakespeare  which 
have  been  examined  we  have  had  an  opportunity  to 
judge  for  ourselves  which  of  the  dramatists  shows  the 
higher  art.  In  the  one  who  looked  upon  himself  and 
was  celebrated  by  his  adherents  as  its  special  represen- 
tative, our  feelings  are  outraged  by  having  the  hero 
portrayed  in  a  matter  which  is  to  affect  his  whole 
future,  as  acting  not  merely  the  part  of  a  fool,  but  of 
an  ungracious  and  ungrateful  fool.  In  the  other,  deal- 
ing with  a  similar  situation,  the  work  of  the  conscious  " 
artist  appears  in  the  minutest  particulars.  Every  de- 
tail is  in  keeping  with  the  demands  of  human  nature. 

127 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

No  impropriety  disturbs  us,  because  everything  which 
might  tend  to  produce  such  an  impression  has  been 
carefully  eliminated.  Miranda  is  to  us  the  same  peer- 
less and  perfect  being,  the  same  top  of  all  admiration, 
which  she  appears  to  Ferdinand.  Without  the  aid  of 
Ariel's  magic  she  conquers  our  hearts  as  completely 
and  as  rapidly  as  she  did  that  of  her  lover.  The  same 
is  true  of  her  creator.  He  has  been  his  own  best  advo- 
cate. The  work  of  Shakespeare  has  triumphed  over 
that  of  his  contemporaries,  has  entered  into  the  lives 
of  us  all,  not  because  he  lacked  art,  but  because  he 
possessed  it. 


128 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  INTERMINGLING  OP  THE  COMIC   AND  THE  TRAGIC 

It  was  his  violation  of  the  unities  which  constituted 
the  most  flagrant  of  the  sins  against  art  which  were 
imputed  to  Shakespeare.  Those  who  are  familiar  with 
the  kind  of  criticism  that  for  the  hundred  years  and 
more  following  the  Restoration  not  simply  prevailed 
in  England,  but  vaunted  itself  exceedingly,  will  be 
the  least  disposed  to  deny  the  importance  which  was 
then  attached  to  the  doctrine.  The  difficulties  which 
attended  its  observance  were  held  up  as  enhancing 
its  merit.  It  is  clear,  from  the  reasons  pointed  out 
in  the  preceding  chapter,  that  conformity  to  it  not 
only  tempted  the  dramatist  to  violate  that  highest 
art  which  consists  in  adherence  to  nature,  but  fet- 
tered in  many  ways  his  genius.  One  can  hardly  con- 
ceive the  expenditure  of  time  and  toil  that  frequently 
became  necessary  to  secure  this  artificial  product.  Yet, 
under  the  influence  of  the  belief  in  this  doctrine,  men 
took  pride  in  their  chains.  Writers  for  the  stage 
deliberately  went  about  to  tie  their  own  hands,  and 
honestly  persuaded  themselves  that  the  work  so  done 
was  of  an  essentially  higher  grade  than  that  which 
was  accomplished  with  the  hands  at  liberty.  "  Art," 
said  Voltaire,  "consists  in  triumphing  over  difficul- 
ties; and  difficulties  overcome  give  in  every  kind  of 
9.  129 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

production  pleasure  and  glory."  The  greater  the  dif- 
ficulty, therefore,  the  greater  the  genius  of  the  poet. 
This  is  a  species  of  argument  which,  if  carried  out 
everywhere  to  its  legitimate  conclusion,  would  make 
the  man  who  paints  with  his  toes  essentially  superior 
to  him  who  paints  with  his  hands.  Shallow  as  is 
the  view,  Voltaire's  faith  in  it  never  wavered  during 
the  whole  of  his  life. 

From  the  period  of  the  Restoration,  therefore,  the 
doctrine  of  the  unities  began  to  be  accepted  as  the 
orthodox  gospel  to  which  all  right-thinking  persons 
were  expected  to  conform.  During  the  eighteenth 
century  until  towards  its  close  it  strengthened  its  hold. 
Belief  in  it  received  in  England  as  well  as  elsewhere 
a  mighty  impetus  from  the  preaching  of  Voltaire,  its 
most  ardent  and  effective  apostle.  The  editors  of 
Shakespeare,  until  Johnson  came,  assumed  without 
question  the  correctness  of  the  doctrine.  Either  by 
direct  assertion  or  by  implication  they  held  the  great 
dramatist  censurable  for  his  disregard  of  it.  Most  of 
the  believers  in  it  accepted  the  creed  blindly.  They 
rarely  ventured  to  ask  for  the  reason  of  the  faith  they 
professed.  Everything  had  already  been  settled,  it  was 
assumed  and  asserted,  by  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients ; 
though  this,  when  subjected  to  close  scrutiny,  turns  out 
now  to  be  nothing  more  than  the  folly  of  the  moderns. 
The  men  of  the  eighteenth  century  never  seem  to  have 
had  the  idea  that  dramatic  art  consists  in  reproducing 
with  fidelity  the  life  we  live  or  are  capable  of  living; 
not  in  the  observance  of  certain  rules,  which,  however 
germane  to  the  special  development  of  the  Greek  stage, 

130 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

had  no  more  binding  authority  upon  the  stage  of  later 
times  than  the  ceremonial  rites  of  the  religion  of  the 
Jew  upon  the  religion  of  the  Christian. 

It  was  not,  however,  disregard  of  the  unities  that 
constituted  the  only  charge  against  Shakespeare.  There 
were  other  precious  things  in  which  he  had  not  attained 
to  the  standard  the  classicists  set  up.  This  failure  on 
his  part  they  imputed  in  a  measure  to  ignorance,  but 
mainly  to  lack  of  taste.  Of  that  particular  quality 
he  had  not  a  particle.  Criticism  of  this  sort  began 
to  show  itself  towards  the  close  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  By.  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  the  opinion 
had  assumed  to  many  almost  the  nature  of  a  self- 
evident  truth.  It  is  impossible  to  overlook  the  in- 
fluence of  Voltaire  in  extending:  in  Eim-land  itself 
the  spread  of  this  view.  It  did  not  owe  its  origin 
to  him.  It  had  been  entertained  and  expressed  in 
that  country  before  he  was  born.  But  he  gave  it 
renewed  vitality ;  above  all,  he  gave  it  general  cur- 
rency. Men  like  Bolingbroke,  Chesterfield,  and  Hume 
did  not  need  to  be  converted  to  his  views  ;  but  they 
were  naturally  confirmed  more  strongly  in  their  own, 
when  they  found  them  sustained  by  the  authority  of 
the  great  literary  autocrat  of  Europe.  In  fact  so 
generally  taken  by  professional  critics  was  this  esti- 
mate of  the  greatest  of  English  playwrights  that  at 
one  time  it  required  not  only  independence,  but  a 
good  deal  of  hardihood  to  run  counter  to  a  belief  so 
widely  accepted.  Here,  as  in  the  unities,  Shakespeare 
comes  before  us  not  only  as  the  representative  of  the 
romantic    drama    but    as    its    champion.      It   was    its 

131 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

methods  which  he  exemplified;  it  was  by  his  exem- 
plification that  they  triumphed  over  hostile  criticism 
and  were  carried  finally  to  victory. 

There  was  one  thing  which  the  classicists  professed 
to  hold  especially  dear.  It  constituted  in  their  eyes  an 
essential  distinction  between  their  methods  and  those 
of  what  we  now  call  the  romantic  drama.  It  can 
be  designated  by  the  somewhat  vague  general  term  of 
propriety.  This  could  be  manifested  in  several  ways. 
When  we  come  to  the  most  generally  discussed  of  its 
various  applications,  we  find  that  propriety  required  that 
the  bounds  of  tragedy  and  of  comedy  should  be  defi- 
nitely determined  and  never  transgressed.  Accord- 
ingly there  should  be  in  the  same  production  no  mixture 
of  the  pathetic  and  the  humorous.  The  tragedy  was 
to  be  all  tragic ;  the  comedy  was  to  be  all  comic.  We 
are  able  therefore  to  enter  into  the  feelings  with  which 
the  adherents  of  the  classical  school  looked  upon  the 
practices  in  which  Shakespeare  indulged.  His  comedies 
contained  painful  scenes ;  his  tragedies  humorous  ones. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  violate  the  unities.  But  that 
could  be  explained,  even  if  it  could  not  be  pardoned, 
by  the  assumed  general  ignorance  of  his  age,  involving 
as  it  did  his  particular  ignorance.  But  no  such  pal- 
liating view  could  be  taken,  when  the  course  adopted 
by  him  depended,  not  on  the  possession  or  on  the  lack 
of  knowledge,  but  upon  the  presence  or  absence  in  his 
nature  of  certain  qualities.  A  man  of  genius  is  bound 
in  such  matters  to  set  an  example  to  his  age ;  not  to 
follow  its  ill  example.  This  latter  Shakespeare  had 
permitted   himself   to    do.     His    action    was    explained 

132 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

variously.  The  production  by  him  of  these  mixed 
pieces  was  stated,  negatively,  to  be  due  to  nothing 
but  the  utter  lack  of  taste ;  stated  positively,  to  be 
due  to  barbarous  taste.  But  whatever  the  precise 
cause,  there  could  be  no  question  as  to  the  character 
of  the  result.  He  had  been  guilty  of  a  gross  viola- 
tion of  decorum. 

Of  the  two  ways  in  which  propriety  can  be  disre- 
garded—  the  introduction  of  tragic  scenes  into  comedy 
or  of  comic  scenes  into  tragedy  —  it  was  perhaps  im- 
possible to  decide  which  is  abstractly  the  worse.  It 
was  the  former,  however,  that  was  more  common.  In 
fact  it  was  so  very  common  that  in  the  eyes  of  many 
of  the  classicists  custom  had  shorn  it  somewhat  of 
its  theoretical  native  hideousness.  Tragi-comedy  was 
indeed  one  of  the  established  forms  of  composition 
during  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  the  first  Stuarts. 
Its  popularity  was  so  wide-spread  that  even  adherents 
of  the  classical  school  were  at  times  disposed  to  re- 
gard it  with  feelings  hardly  akin  to  disfavor.  Some 
there  were  who  accepted  it  as  a  kind  of  concession  to 
human  infirmity,  very  much  on  the  same  ground  of 
hardness  of  heart  which  suffered  the  ancient  Israelite 
to  divorce  a  distasteful  wife.  No  such  countenance, 
however,  did  this  mongrel  production,  as  it  was  termed, 
meet  with  from  the  believers  in  art  pure  and  undefiled. 
The  gonfalon  they  marched  under  was  to  be  absolutely 
spotless.  It  was  the  business  of  the  comic  muse  to 
entertain,  to  delight,  to  fill  our  hearts  with  joy.  Not 
once  should  the  black  shadow  of  care  be  permitted 
to  overhang  our  spirits.     Not  under  any  pretext  should 

133 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

the  slightest  thing  be  introduced  calculated  to  arouse 
for  a  single  moment  feelings  of  grief  or  terror.  What- 
ever else  we  fail  in,  was  their  cry,  let  us  at  least  not 
fail  in  propriety.  Whatever  else  we  give  up,  let  us  not 
forget  our  first  duty,  which  is  to  remain  faithful  to  art. 

And  tragi-comedy,  it  came  to  be  a  general  opinion, 
was  not  faithful  to  art.  The  arguments  occasionally 
used  to  bolster  up  its  pretensions  were  brushed  away 
without  ceremony.  It  had  on  its  side  the  practice  of 
the  Elizabethan  playwrights.  But  that  of  course  was 
no  authority.  If  these  men  were  not  rude  and  igno- 
rant themselves,  they  were  obliged  to  consult  the  taste 
of  a  rude  and  ignorant  age.  It  had  further  on  its  side 
the  continuous  favor  of  the  public.  That  was  even 
less  to  its  credit  than  the  practice  of  the  Elizabethan 
playwrights.  So  far  from  being  evidence  for  either 
its  correctness  or  excellence,  its  popularity  aroused 
the  suspicion  that  for  that  very  reason  it  must  be 
both  inferior  and  wrong.  That  any  work  meets  with 
general  approbation  has  nearly  always  been  proof  posi- 
tive to  the  superior  person  that  it  has  failed  to  come  up 
anywhere  near  to  his  own  exalted  standard.  This  atti- 
tude, taken  from  time  immemorial  towards  all  kinds  of 
literature,  was  the  one  regularly  assumed  towards  tragi- 
comedy. Unnatural  inventions  of  this  sort,  it  was  said, 
might  please  the  groundlings.  The  judicious  would 
be  only  grieved  or  offended.  He  who  thus  sought  to 
gain  the  applause  of  the  ignorant  must  be  content  to 
dispense  with  the  approval  of  the  wise. 

Again,  tragi-comedy  could  boast  on  its  side  the 
authority   of    some    men   of    letters.     Even   after   the 

134 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

Restoration  it  had  had  its  advocates.  Among  them 
too  could  be  reckoned  the  great  name  of  Dryden. 
In  his  'Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,'  published  in  1G68, 
he  gave  the  views  of  both  sides.  One  of  the  inter- 
locutors in  the  dialogue,  Lisideius  —  by  whom  is  usu- 
ally supposed  to  be  meant  Sir  Charles  Sedley — roundly 
denounced  tragi-comedy.  No  theatre  in  the  world  save 
the  English  had  anything  so  absurd.  "  'T  is  a  drama 
of  our  own  invention,"  he  is  represented  as  saying, 
"  and  the  fashion  enough  to  proclaim  it  so :  here  a 
course  of  mirth,  there  another  of  sadness  and  passion, 
and  a  third  of  honor  and  a  duel ;  thus  in  two  hours 
and  a  half  we  run  through  all  the  fits  of  Bedlam." 
When  it  comes  to  the  turn  of  Neander  —  that  is,  Dry- 
den —  to  speak,  he  maintains  the  propriety  and  excel- 
lence of  this  kind  of  composition.  He  denies  that  pity 
and  mirth  in  the  same  piece  destroy  each  other.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  in  life  as  well  as  logic,  contrarieties, 
when  placed  near,  set  each  other  off.  It  was  to  the 
honor  of  the  English  stage,  he  concluded,  that  it  had 
invented,  increased,  and  perfected  a  more  pleasant  way 
of  writinof  than  was  ever  known  to  the  ancients  or 
moderns  of  any  nation. 

But  this  defence  of  tragi-comedy  availed  little  or 
nothing.  No  authority,  however  eminent,  it  was  held 
could  oversway  the  established  principles  of  criticism 
which  had  set  down  this  method  of  composition  as 
monstrous.  As  in  the  case  of  the  unities,  the  argu- 
ments denouncing  their  violation  met  for  a  long  time 
with  general  critical  assent,  so  it  was  with  the  pro- 
scription  of    the   pathetic    and    the   humorous   in   the 

135 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

same  production.  "There  is  no  place  in  tragedy," 
wrote  Gildon,  "for  anything  but  grave  and  serious 
actions." l  Tragi-comedy  fell  completely  under  the 
ban  of  those  who  posed  as  the  champions  of  true  taste. 
The  practice  of  writing  it  did  not  indeed  die  out;  nor 
did  the  plays  of  that  character  produced  fail  of  suc- 
cess. But  however  popular  tragi-comedy  might  be 
with  the  public,  it  met  with  scant  favor  from  the  pro- 
fessed leaders  of  public  opinion.  It  was  the  fashion 
to  decry  it  as  the  ridiculous  invention  of  an  unpolished 
age.  It  was  after  this  very  manner  that  Addison 
spoke  of  it  in  one  of  his  essays.  In  so  doing  he  re- 
echoed the  words  put  by  Dryden  into  the  mouth  of 
Sedley.  He  described  it  as  a  production  of  purely 
native  growth.  The  invention,  however,  so  far  from 
redounding  to  the  honor  of  the  English  stage,  was 
one  of  the  most  monstrous  that  had  ever  entered  a 
poet's  thoughts.  "But  the  absurdity  of  the  perform- 
ance," he  added  complacently,  "  is  so  very  visible 
that  I  shall  not  insist  upon  it." 2  From  these  last 
words  it  is  clear  that  Addison  was  expressing  the  ac- 
cepted view  that  had  then  come  to  be  entertained  by 
the  men  of  the  class  to  which  he  belonged. 

Tragi-comedy,  accordingly,  though  much  liked  by  the 
public,  met  with  scant  favor  from  the  professional 
critics.  Even  Dryden  spoke  of  it  at  times  disparag- 
ingly, and  that,  too,  at  the  very  moment  he  was  ex- 
emplifying   it   in    his   practice.      Certainly   few   there 

1  Essay  on  the  Art..  Rise,  and  Progress  of  the  Stage  (1710),  in  edition 
of  Shakespeare,  1728,  vol.  x.  p.  16. 

2  Spectator,  No.  40,  April  16,  1711. 

136 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

were  to  put  in  any  plea  in  its  defence.  Dry  den's 
brother-in-law,  Sir  Robert  Howard,  who  openly  pro- 
fessed disbelief  in  the  unities,  found,  though  with 
some  reluctance,  that  tragi-comedy  was  too  much  for 
him  to  approve.1  Dennis,  who  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances would  far  rather  have  died  than  fail  to 
advocate  the  unpopular  side  of  any  subject,  had  noth- 
ing to  offer  in  its  favor.  He  commented,  indeed,  in 
no  very  amiable  terms  upon  some  of  the  statements 
made  by  Addison  in  the  essay  just  mentioned.  That 
writer  was  declared  to  be  vilely  mistaken  if  he  fancied 
tragi-comedy  was  an  outgrowth  of  the  English  theatre.2 
In  this  Dennis  had  been  anticipated  by  Gildon,  who 
about  two  years  before  had  argued  at  great  length 
against  Dryden's  defence  of  this  "  unnatural  mixture," 
as  he  termed  it,  and  had  asserted  that  it  belonged 
to  the  earlier  and  ruder  period  of  both  the  Greek 
and  the  Latin  drama,  instead  of  being  a  modern  in- 
vention.3 But  while  Dennis  himself  did  not  denounce 
this  species  of  dramatic  composition,  he  made  no  at- 
tempt to  justify  it.  There  was  indeed  no  one  —  at  least 
no  one  of  eminence  —  to  say  a  good  word  for  it  until 
Dr.  Johnson  came  forward  to  plead  its  cause.  In  the 
very  same  number  of  '  The  Rambler,'  in  which  he 
questioned  the  propriety  of  the  unities,  he  professed 
himself  inclined  to  believe  that  he  who  regarded  no 
other  laws  than  those  of  nature  would  take  under 
his  protection  tragi-comedy.     One  of   his  sentences  is 

1  Preface  to  Four  New  Plays,  1665. 

2  Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Writings  of  Shakespeare  (1712),  p.  48. 

8  Remarks  on  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare  (1710),  in  Works,  ed.  1728, 
vol.  x.  p.  426. 

137 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

somewhat  ambiguous  ;  the  end  apparently  contradicts 
the  beginning.  Tragi-comedy ,  he  said,  "  however  gen- 
erally condemned,  her  own  laurels  have  hitherto  shaded 
from  the  fulminations  of  criticism."  1  His  defence  of 
this  mode  of  composition  he  made  still  stronger  in  the 
preface  to  his  edition  of  Shakespeare. 

The  account,  which  has  here  been  given  of  the  views 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  has  so  far  gone  upon  the 
supposition  that  the  men  of  that  time  attached  to 
tragi-comedy  precisely  the  same  sense  in  which  we 
ordinarily  understand  the  word  to-day.  But  this  was  not 
always  the  case.  The  critical  estimate  of  that  period 
is  in  consequence  subject  to  an  important  modification. 
With  us  the  term  designates  a  play  partaking  of  the 
characteristics  of  both  comedy  and  tragedy,  but  having 
regularly  a  fortunate  ending.  Such  was  its  use  among 
the  Elizabethans.  So  long  as  the  final  event  of  these 
two  kinds  of  composition  was  kept  perfectly  distinct, 
so  long  as  tragedy  implied  a  tragic  conclusion  and 
comedy  a  happy  one,  the  present  sense  is  the  only  one 
in  which  the  word  could  be  properly  employed.  But 
after  the  Restoration  this  demarcation  did  not  continue 
to  exist.  It  was  no  longer  essential  that  tragedy  should 
have  a  tragic  ending.  Provided  there  had  been  a 
sufficient  amount  of  misery  in  the  course  of  the  play, 
or  provided  that  a  reasonable  number  of  the  wicked 
characters  had  been  done  to  death,  the  virtuous  hero 
and  heroine  might  be  permitted  to  emerge  from  their 
troubles  unscathed.  This  method  of  representing  the 
result  had  in  its  favor  the  occasional  support  of  an- 

i  No.  156,  Sept.  14,  1751. 
138 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

tiquity.  The  '  Electra '  of  Sophocles,  the  '  Iphigenia  in 
Tauris '  of  Euripides,  to  select  two  examples,  had  each 
an  ending,  if  not  positively  happy,  at  least  satisfactory 
to  the  feeling's.  A  similar  treatment  of  the  tragic 
theme  developed  itself  upon  the  English  stage.  Tate's 
adaptation  of  '  Lear '  is  a  noted  case  in  point.  It  con- 
tinued to  be  called  a  tragedy,  though  Cordelia  came 
out  triumphant,  and  saw  her  father  privileged  to  re- 
ascend  his  throne.  In  the  eighteenth  century  the  term 
seems  occasionally  to  have  been  applied  to  dramas  hardly 
tragic  at  all,  for  no  other  reason  apparently  than  that 
they  were  written  in  blank  verse.1 

The  breaking  down  of  this  demarcation,  however,  was 
looked  upon  with  little  favor  by  many  of  the  stricter 
sort ;  and  controversy  about  its  correctness  lasted  as  late 
at  least  as  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.  But 
one  consequence  of  it  was  the  extension  of  the  mean- 
ing of  the  term  tragi-comedy.  It  came  to  be  applied 
to  dramas  which  had  the  most  painful  of  catastrophes, 
provided  they  admitted  anywhere  humorous  scenes.  It 
was  further  applied  to  plays  in  which  the  comic  ele- 
ment was  almost  wholly  independent  of  the  tragic.  It 
was  thus  defined  b}'  Colman  in  the  advertisement  pre- 
fixed to  his  alteration  of  'Philaster.'  The  term  in 
question,  he  said,  "  according  to  its  present  acceptation 
conveys  the  idea  of  ...  a  play,  like  '  The  Spanish  Friar ' 
or  '  Oronooko,'  in  which  two  distinct  actions,  one  serious 
and  the  other  comic,  are  unnaturally  woven  together." 
In  the  other  and  more  limited  sense  it  is,  however,  often 
employed.     Consequently,  when  the  eighteenth-century 

1  See,  for  illustration,  Francis's  '  Eugenia,'  1752. 

139 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

critics  speak  of  tragi-cornedy,  it  is  frequently  and  per- 
haps usually  the  introduction  of  humorous  scenes  into 
tragedy  proper  which  they  have  in  mind.  This  was  in 
their  eyes  the  grossest  possible  violation  of  decorum. 
The  feeling  that  would  banish  what  was  painful  from 
comedy  could  never  be  compared  in  intensity  with  that 
which  shuddered  at  the  introduction  of  comic  passages 
into  tragedy.  Language  at  times  seemed  utterly  in- 
adequate to  paint  the  absurdity,  the  grossness,  and  the 
barbarism  of  such  a  procedure. 

The  course  was  particularly  objectionable  because 
it  conflicted  with  all  the  then  established  principles 
of  dramatic  art.  These,  it  was  felt,  had  come  to  be 
definitely  settled  for  all  time.  Especially  was  it  ob- 
jectionable when  the  catastrophe  of  the  piece  was 
painful.  In  that  case  there  was  no  room  for  any- 
thing which  could  be  suspected  of  being  even  re- 
motely jocular.  Tragedy  was  to  be  throughout  in  a 
state  of  grief  or  terror.  It  was  not  really  tragedy 
when  there  was  any  attempt  put  forth  to  lighten  the 
generally  pervasive  atmosphere  of  funereal  gloom.  It 
must  always  be  on  the  point  of  bursting  into  fits  of 
tears  or  fits  of  rage.  Anything  that  violently  conflicted 
with  these  two  engrossing  occupations  was  regarded  as 
detracting  from  its  dignity.  The  monotony  of  wretch- 
edness was  never  to  be  disturbed  by  anything  which 
savored  of  the  humorous,  especially  by  that  form  of 
it  which  was  called  low.  If  any  one  resorted  to  such 
methods,  and  his  venture  was  received  with  pleasure 
by  crowded  audiences,  the  professional  reviewers  took 
care  to  dispel  any  self-complacency  in  which  the  author 

140 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

might  be  disposed  to  indulge  as  a  consequence,  by  as- 
suring him  that  his  work,  however  favorably  regarded 
by  the  public,  could  not  be  expected  to  sustain  success- 
fully the  ordeal  of  criticism.  Shakespeare,  in  spite  of 
the  veneration  in  which  he  was  held,  had  constantly 
to  undergo  castigation  for  the  offences  of  this  sort  he 
had  committed.  Complaint  was  loudly  expressed  of 
the  low  nonsense,  the  misplaced  buffoonery  with  which, 
in  defiance  of  every  principle  of  decorum,  he  had  suf- 
fered even  his  best  pieces  to  be  disgraced. 

These  last  words  —  which  are  taken  almost  literally 
from  a  periodical  of  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century  1  —  are  given  merely  as  an  illustration  of  the 
attitude  assumed  towards  Shakespeare  by  those  who 
regarded  themselves  as  responsible  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  pure  and  refined  taste.  Remarks  of  this  regula- 
tion pattern  can  be  found  repeated  again  and  again 
with  positiveness  in  essays,  in  magazines,  in  reviews,  in 
pamphlets  of  various  kinds.  The  grave-diggers'  scene 
in  '  Hamlet '  came  to  be,  in  particular,  the  subject  of 
attack.  From  it  critics,  even  when  otherwise  favor- 
able, turned  away  with  averted  eyes.  The  most  fervent 
admirer  of  the  great  dramatist  felt  it  incumbent  to 
exhibit  the  impartiality  of  his  judgment  by  falling  foul 
of  so  manifest  a  violation  of  propriety.  The  anony- 
mous author  of  '  Observations  on  the  Tragedy  of 
Hamlet,'  which  appeared  about  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  gave  vent  to  sentiments  which  were  so 
commonly  expressed  that  they  are  worth  quoting  as 
representative  of  widely  prevalent  feelings  in  the  class 

1  European  Magazine,  December,  1785,  vol.  viii.  p.  417. 

141 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

which  assumed  to  itself  the  character  of  being  specially 
cultured.  After  the  usual  lamentations  about  Shake- 
speare's disregard  of  the  unities,  after  the  usual  remarks 
that  if  he  had  only  known  the  rules  he  would  have 
risen  to  still  nobler  and  sublimer  heights  than  he  actu- 
ally attained,  the  writer  let  fall  the  full  fury  of  his 
indignation  upon  the  introduction  of  the  grave-diggers. 
"Though  this  scene,"  he  said,  "is  full  of  humor,  and 
had  not  been  amiss  in  low  comedy,  it  has  not  the  least 
business  here.  To  debase  his  sublime  compositions  with 
wretched  farce,  commonplace  jokes,  and  unmeaning 
quibbles,  seems  to  have  been  the  delight  of  the  laurelled, 
the  immortal  Shakespeare.  Some  of  his  foolish  bigoted 
admirers  have  endeavored  to  excuse  him  by  saying  that 
it  was  more  the  fault  of  the  age  than  his,  that  the  taste 
of  the  people  was  to  the  highest  degree  vicious  when 
he  wrote,  that  they  had  been  used  to  buffoonery  and 
would  not  be  pleased  without  it,  and  that  he  was 
obliged  to  comply  with  the  prevailing  taste  for  his  own 
emolument.  This,  instead  of  excusing,  aggravates  'his 
crime.  He  was  conscious  he  acted  wrong,  but  meanly 
chose  to  sacrifice  his  sense  and  judgment  to  delight  an 
injudicious  audience  and  gain  the  applause  of  a  herd 
of  fools,  rather  than  approach  too  near  to  purity  and 
perfection.  To  mix  comedy  with  tragedy  is  breaking 
through  the  sacred  laws  of  nature,  nor  can  it  be  de- 
fended." Those  familiar  with  the  writings  of  Voltaire 
will  recognize  at  once  how  exactly  these  words  reflect 
his  opinions.  The  reference  to  the  female  sex  with 
which  the  passage  concludes  bears,  however,  the  un- 
mistakable mark  of  the  native  soil.     "  This  incoherent 

142 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

absurdity,"  adds  the  writer,  "will  forever  remain  an 
indelible  blot  in  the  character  of  our  poet ;  and  warn  us 
no  more  to  expect  perfection  in  the  work  of  a  mortal 
than  sincerity  in  the  breast  of  a  female."1 

Fortunately  for  his  peace  during  life,  fortunately  for 
his  reputation  after  death,  the  writer  of  this  little  work 
remained  anonymous.  But  to  the  list  of  undistin- 
guished and  indistinguishable  mediocrities  who  found 
fault  with  this  species  of  composition,  can  be  added  the 
great  name  of  Milton.  In  the  preface  to  his  '  Samson  j, 
Agonistes, '  published  in  1671,  he  spoke  of  the  small 
esteem,  or  rather  infamy,  in  which,  according  to  him, 
tragedy  was  held  in  his  day.  It  had  all  come  about, 
he  asserted,  "through  the  poet's  error  of  intermixing 
comic  stuff  with  tragic  sadness ;  or  introducing  trivial 
and  vulgar  persons:  which  by  all  judicious  hath  been 
counted  absurd,  and  brought  in  without  discretion,  cor- 
ruptly to  gratify  the  people."  This  was  the  opinion 
of  the  man  who  looked  at  the  drama  from  the  point  of 
view  of  classical  antiquity.  The  French  critics  carried 
still  further  the  stern  repression  of  the  comic  element  in 
tragedy.  They  found  fault,  indeed,  with  the  ancients 
themselves  for  their  deviations  from  this  assumed 
standard  of  perfect  propriety.  The  frivolous  conversa- 
tion, for  instance,  introduced  by  Euripides  into  his 
'  Alcestis  '  met  with  condemnation.  If  such  could  be 
their  attitude  towards  a  great  writer  of  antiquity,  it 
was  inevitable  that  no  mere  modern  like  Shakespeare 
could  escape  the  lash.  His  works  were  hardly  brought 
to  their  notice  till  a  third  of  the  eighteenth  century  had 

1  Miscellaneous  Observations,  etc.,  p.  46,  1752. 
143 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

gone.  From  that  time  on  there  was  an  almost  unvary- 
ing uniformity  of  censure  bestowed  upon  him  for  his 
mixture  of  comic  and  tragic  scenes  in  the  same  produc- 
tion. This  in  turn  affected  English  critical  opinion, 
which  in  dramatic  matters  was  then  largely  a  mere  echo 
of  the  French.  It  was  rarely  the  case  that  Shake- 
speare's professed  admirers  attempted  to  defend  his 
course  in  this  particular.  When  Walpole  did  so  in  the 
preface  to  the  second  edition  of  his  '  Castle  of  Otranto,' 
he  was  sneered  at  by  the  critics  who  were  in  good  and 
regular  standing.  The  ones  favorably  disposed  towards 
the  dramatist  constantly  shifted  the  burden  of  respon- 
sibility for  his  conceded  excesses  and  absurdities  from 
his  shoulders  to  those  of  his  age. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Milton,  in  the  passage  just  quoted, 
had  done  more  than  condemn  the  intermingling  of  the 
serious  and  the  humorous  in  the  same  piece.  His 
censure  had  further  fallen  upon  the  introduction  into 
tragedy  of  low  and  trivial  persons.  One  was  not  exactly 
a  consequent  of  the  other;  but  it  was  reasonably  sure 
to  be  its  accompaniment.  Here  was  a  peculiar  aggra- 
vation of  the  original  offence.  A  practice  of  this  sort 
was  contrary  to  all  classical  precedent ;  nor  had  it  any 
support  from  the  moderns  who  had  followed  classical 
models.  At  times  exception  had  been  taken  to  Ben 
Jonson's  course  in  introducing  into  his  two  tragedies 
scenes  below  the  dignity  of  tragedy.  In  '  Sejanus  '  Livia 
and  her  physician  satirize  artificial  helps  to  beauty. 
In  '  Catiline  '  there  is  a  j)arliament  of  women.  But  in 
neither  case  do  those  who  take  part  in  the  dialogue 
belong  to  a  low  class.     This  hostility  to  the  introduc- 

144 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

tion  of  men  of  an  inferior  social  grade  was  based  upon 
the  generally  accepted  doctrine  that  tragedy  must  never 
deal  with  persons  who  belong  to  common  life.  If 
otherwise,  it  could  not  properly  bear  Milton's  epithet 
of  gorgeous.  Its  characters  must  hold  the  sceptre  and 
wear  the  pall.  Any  treatment  of  the  theme  that  did 
not  conform  essentially  to  this  practice  showed  by  that 
very  fact  that  it  was  deficient  in  art.  There  is  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  in  justification  of  the  wide  prevalence  of 
such  a  view  when  two  authors,  so  great  in  genius  and 
so  unlike  in  nature  as  Voltaire  and  Milton,  agreed  in 
maintaining  it.  Under  such  circumstances  the  ordi- 
nary man  may  be  pardoned  for  believing  that  it  must 
be  true. 

The  belief  in  the  necessity  of  preserving  unimpaired 
the  dignity  of  tragedy  by  excluding  from  it  all  men  of 
the  baser  sort  prevailed  generally  in  the  critical  litera- 
ture of  the  eighteenth  century.  To  no  small  extent  it 
was  affected  by  political  considerations,  especially  by 
the  feeling  entertained  for  the  ruler.  Even  less  on 
the  stage  than  in  the  court  itself  was  there  to  be  any 
tampering  with  the  dignity  of  so  divinely  an  accredited 
being.  The  moment  a  king  appeared  he  must  discover 
himself  in  every  word  and  sentence.  Both  thought 
and  language  were  to  be  in  accordance  with  his  high 
position.  Voltaire  insisted  that  not  only  nothing  com- 
mon must  be  said  by  him,  but  nothing  common  could 
be  said  before  him.  This  was  not  merely  in  the  play 
itself,  but  in  its  representation  in  his  presence.  The 
phrase,  "not  a  mouse  stirring,"  in  the  opening  of  '  Ham- 
let, '  he  asserted,  might  do  for  a  guard-house ;  "  but  not 
10  145 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

upon  the  stage,  before  the  first  persons  of  a  nation,  who 
express  themselves  nobly,  and  before  whom  men  must 
express  themselves  in  the  same  way."  The  French 
idea  of  the  conduct  of  a  tragedy  seems,  then,  to  have 
much  resembled  the  conception  which  children  have  of 
the  behavior  of  a  king.  In  the  eyes  of  these  he  always 
goes  about  with  a  crown  upon  his  head.  That  he  can 
act  like  other  men,  can  share  both  their  feelings  and 
their  failings,  can  enjoy  the  same  pleasures  and  suffer 
the  same  pains  seemed  never  to  enter  their  minds.  The 
French  extended  even  to  themselves  the  deference  that 
was  to  be  paid  to  their  rulers.  On  their  own  account, 
as  well  as  the  king's,  they  objected  to  the  introduction 
of  inferior  persons  upon  the  stage.  Like  Hotspur's 
lord,  they  wished  no  rude,  unmannerly  knaves  to  come 
between  the  wind  and  their  nobility. 

Far  otherwise  had  been  the  practice  of  Shakespeare. 
By  him  all  these  conventions  so  cherished  by  the  classi- 
cists had  been  systematically  violated.  On  his  crowded 
stage  men  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  life  appear. 
They  talk  to  each  other  in  the  chamber,  they  jostle  one 
another  in  the  street.  What  was  perhaps  even  worse 
was  the  introduction  of  the  professional  fools,  holding 
conversation  with  the  graver  personages  of  the  play, 
especially  with  the  monarch.  Such  a  course  was  against 
all  classical  precedent.  It  was  one  of  the  points  of 
extremest  divergence  between  the  English  and  French 
theatres.  Upon  the  latter,  characters  belonging  to 
low  life  would  never  have  been  permitted  by  the  audi- 
ence to  play  their  parts,  had  the  author  been  audacious 
enough  to  introduce  them.     But  to  introduce  them  the 

146 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

author  had  no  disposition.  Voltaire  tells  us,  in  the 
preface  to  his  tragedy  of  Rome  Sauvee,  that  he  was 
particular  not  to  bring  upon  the  stage  the  deputies  of 
the  Allohroges.  It  was  their  station  in  life  that  kept 
them  from  appearing  before  the  cultivated  audience  to 
which  his  play  was  addressed.  They  were  not  really 
ambassadors  of  the  Gauls,  he  tells  us.  In  that  case 
their  presence  would  not  have  disgraced  the  distin- 
guished assemblage  before  which  they  were  to  act. 
But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  were  the  agents  of  a 
petty  Italian  province,  who  were  nothing  but  low  in- 
formers, and  therefore  not  proper  persons  to  appear  in 
company  with  Cicero,  Csesar,  and  Cato.  As  might  be 
expected  from  a  man  holding  such  views,  Shakespeare's 
course  offered  a  favorite  subject  of  criticism.  He 
attacked  the  opening  scene  in  '  Julius  Ca?sar, '  where 
the  lowest  class  of  the  populace  are  represented  as  ex- 
changing speeches  with  the  tribunes.  It  was  not  the 
character  of  the  conversation  that  called  forth  his 
special  censure.  It  was  not  because  it  abounded  in 
dreadful  quibbles  and  plays  upon  words  —  and  in  the 
wretchedness  of  this  wretched  practice,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, Shakespeare  surpassed  all  his  contemporaries. 
But  while  these  things  aggravated  the  offence,  they  did 
not  constitute  it.  That  consisted  in  there  being  any 
conversation  at  all. 

In  all  the  numerous  and  varied  censures  which  the 
professed  guardians  of  taste  passed  upon  the  drama- 
tist for  his  assumed  violations  of  decorum,  it  never 
seemed  to  occur  to  any  one  of  them  that,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  dramatic  art  itself,  he,  the  great 

147 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

master,  might  be  right,  and  they,  the  critics,  might  be 
wrong.  Being  a  man,  he  was  liable  in  matters  of  detail 
to  fall  into  error  through  haste,  or  carelessness,  or  even 
mistaken  judgment.  But  being  a  man  of  genius,  was 
he  likely  to  err  in  the  broad  general  methods  which  he 
had  followed  ?  A  possibility  that  he  knew  much  more 
than  his  censurers  was  never  taken  into  consideration. 
His  incorrectness  was  assumed  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  only  thing  left  was  to  explain  how  it  came  about. 
His  severer  critics  did  not  impute  his  intermixture  of 
tragic  and  comic  scenes  to  ignorance.  It  was  all  owing, 
in  their  opinion,  to  his  villanous  taste.  In  this  belief 
as  to  its  origin  they  may  be  conceded  to  be  right, 
even  if  we  dispute  the  justice  of  the  adjective  applied 
to  the  noun.  It  would,  indeed,  be  preposterous  to  take 
the  ground  that  Shakespeare  was  not  familiar  with 
views  which  his  practice  shows  that  he  did  not  accept. 
His  remarks  in  '  Hamlet '  upon  the  many  sorts  of  dra- 
matic writing  in  vogue  show  that  he  knew  perfectly 
well  what  he  was  doing.  The  course  which  he  adopted 
was,  without  doubt,  the  course  that  had  been  common 
with  his  predecessors  and  was  common  with  his  con- 
temporaries. But  there  is  not  the  slightest  reason  to 
suppose  that  he  followed  it  ignorantly  or  unadvisedly. 

He  had  had,  indeed,  ample  opportunity  to  learn  the 
opinions  of  the  school  whose  precepts  he  did  not  regard. 
There  had  been  a  number  of  plays  written  in  accord- 
ance with  its  canons.  They  exist, still,  and  are  occa- 
sionally read,  though  read  only  by  the  painful  student 
of  the  drama.  There  had  also  been  a  number  of  critical 
prophets  going  before  him  to  point  out  the  error  of  the 

148 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND    TRAGIC 

ways  into  which  the  earlier  playwrights  had  fallen. 
The  same  authorities,  to  say  nothing  of  others,  who 
had  come  forward  to  instruct  an  unsesthetic  generation 
in  the  nature  of  the  crime  involved  in  the  violation  of 
the  unities,  had  also  left  their  warnings  as  to  the  grave 
impropriety  of  mingling  comic  matter  with  tragic. 
"Many  times,  to  make  mirth,"  says  Whetstone  in  his 
comments  on  his  contemporaries,  "they  make  a  clown 
companion  with  a  king.  In  their  grave  counsels  they 
allow  the  advice  of  fools:  yea,  they  use  one  order  cf 
speech  for  all  persons :  —  a  gross  indecorum,  for  a  crow 
will  ill  counterfeit  the  nightingale's  sweet  voice."  To 
the  same  effect  spoke  Sidney  in  his  '  Apology  for 
Poetry.'  He  declared  that  the  plays  of  his  time  were 
neither  right  tragedies  nor  right  comedies.  They  min- 
gle kings  and  clowns,  he  continued,  "not  because  the 
matter  so  carrieth  it;  but  thrust  in  clowns  by  head  and 
shoulders  to  play  a  part  in  majestical  matters  with 
neither  decency  nor  discretion.  So  as  neither  the  ad- 
miration and  commiseration,  nor  the  right  sportfulness 
is  by  their  mongrel  tragi-comedy  obtained." 

It  is  not  unlikely  that  many,  and  perhaps  the  large 
majority  of  the  plays  of  that  earliest  period,  had  they 
been  preserved,  would  have  been  recognized  by  us  as 
justly  falling  under  Sidney's  censure,  when  he  declared 
that  while  no  sort  of  poetry  was  so  much  used  in  the 
England  of  his  time  as  the  dramatic,  none  was  more 
plentifully  abused.  But  the  abuse  was  not,  as  he  sup- 
posed, in  the  method  followed,  but  in  the  execution. 
It  was  Shakespeare's  triumph  to  prove  by  his  practice 
that  the  method  was  conformable  both   to  nature  and 

149 


f 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

the  highest  art.  Kings  and  the  professional  fools  of 
the  household  conversed  together  in  real  life.  What 
inherent  objection  existed  to  their  doing  so  in  the  drama 
which  is  supposed  to  represent  real  life  ?  It  was  never 
their  introduction  into  the  same  scene  that  merited 
censure.  It  was  the  way  they  conducted  themselves 
after  being  brought  together  that  would  enhance  or 
injure  the  effect  of  the  play.  It  is  one  of  Shakespeare's 
crowning  distinctions  that  he  recognized  the  possibil- 
ities that  lay  in  the  contrast  of  these  opposed  char- 
acters. He  saw  that  it  furnished  opportunities  for 
effective  representation  which  did  not  and  could  not 
exist  under  the  rigid  rules  of  the  classicists.  Espe- 
cially was  he  quick  to  seize  upon  the  chances  which  the 
introduction  of  the  household  jester  presented,  to  make 
acute  and  daring  remarks  on  human  life  and  motives 
that  could  not  safely  be  put  in  the  mouths  of  more  seri- 
ous characters ;  for  it  is  the  all-licensed  fool  that  utters 
what  other  people  think  but  are  afraid  to  say. 

What,  indeed,  is  the  objection  to  this  mixture  of  the 
serious  and  the  comic  in  the  same  play  ?  By  it  is  cer- 
tainly represented,  as  it  is  not  in  pure  comedy  or  pure 
traged}7,  the  life  we  actually  live  and  the  mingled  ele- 
ments that  compose  it.  None  of  us  exist  in  a  state  of 
perpetual  joy  or  of  perpetual  gloom.  We  can  go  even 
farther.  In  the  most  tragical  events  there  is  usually 
somewhere  an  element  of  the  humorous.  In  the  most 
cheerful  passages  of  life  there  always  looms  up  before 
our  eyes  the  suggestion,  if  not  the  reality,  of  sorrow. 
There  is  no  one  to  whom  existence  is  purely  a  pleasure. 
Those  of  us  who  have  no  great  misfortunes  to  contend 

150 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

with,  usually  succeed  in  getting  an  adequate  share  of 
misery  out  of  the  little  ones  that  fall  to  our  lot.  The 
lives  of  the  happiest  of  us  all  are  really  tragi-coraedies. 
In  them  painful  episodes  occur.  They  abound  in  events 
that  wear  upon  the  feelings,  even  if  we  are  enabled  to 
escape  from  calamities  which  sadden  the  heart,  though 
they  may  not  break  the  spirit.  A  single  incident,  or  a 
series  of  closely  connected  incidents,  may  belong  to  the 
realm  of  comedy  or  of  tragedy  pure  and  simple.  It  is 
right  enough  to  make  matters  of  this  kind  the  subject 
of  a  play.  It  is  right  enough  to  make  the  play  in 
accordance  therewith  serious  or  humorous  throughout. 
It  would  be,  however,  a  most  unjustifiable  restraint 
upon  the  liberty  of  the  dramatist  to  limit  him  either  to 
incidents  of  this  nature  or  to  this  method  of  treating 
them. 

Yet  this  was  something  that  was  constantly  at- 
tempted. A  spurious  reason,  as  we  have  seen,  had 
been  given  for  the  maintenance  of  the  unities.  The 
spectator,  we  were  told,  suffered  pain,  or  ought  to  have 
suffered  pain,  if  they  were  violated.  In  being  trans- 
ported from  place  to  place  his  ideas  were  confounded 
and  his  sensations  dissipated.  A  line  of  reasoning,  not 
essentially  different,  was  adopted  in  regard  to  the  mix- 
ture of  serious  and  humorous  scenes  in  the  same  play. 
As  there  was  no  question  that  sadness  and  mirth  were 
constantly  intermixed  in  real  life,  it  was  impossible  to 
maintain  that  the  illegitimacy  of  this  form  of  dramatic 
composition  was  due  to  its  improbability.  Another 
sort  of  ground  —  already  indicated  in  Dryden's  essay 
—  was  taken.     The  two  impressions  were  said  to  coun- 

151 


* 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

teract  each  other.  Their  incompatibility  destroyed  the 
effect  of  the  play  when  they  were  introduced  together. 
This  assumption,  like  many  of  the  conventional  assump- 
tions of  the  classicists,  was  based  upon  the  fallacy  that 
the  spectator  feels  the  same  degree  of  sorrow  or  joy 
that  the  characters  in  the  play  are  represented  as  expe- 
riencing. No  one  seemed  to  think  it  worth  while  to 
controvert  it;  accordingly  it  turned  up  with  invariable 
regularity  in  the  criticism  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Towards  its  close  it  was  formulated  and  stated  in  full- 
est terms  by  Richardson,  who  was  professor  of  humanity 
in  the  university  of  Glasgow. 

Richardson  was  among  the  first,  if  he  was  not  the 
very  first,  to  enter  upon  the  cultivation  of  a  field  which 
has  since  been  worked  almost  beyond  the  capacity  of 
production.  This  is  the  analysis  of  characters  in  Shake- 
speare's plays.  Several  of  them  were  subjected  by  him 
to  examination  in  two  treatises  which  appeared,  respec- 
tively, in  1774  and  1783.  Both  of  these  were  creditable 
pieces  of  work.  The  style,  to  be  sure,  was  somewhat 
labored  and  heavy ;  and  an  overpowering  desire  to  scatter 
moral  reflections  on  every  imaginable  pretext  was  not 
calculated  to  add  to  the  charm  of  the  matter.  Still  the 
author  was  a  sincere  and  ardent  admirer  of  Shakespeare. 
That,  however,  did  not  prevent  him  from  contributing 
to  his  second  treatise  a  short  essay  upon  the  faults  of  the 
dramatist.  The  criticism  contained  in  it  was  very  old 
and  very  shallow ;  nor  was  its  ineffectiveness  made  any 
the  less  ineffective  because  clothed  in  pompous  phrase- 
ology. According  to  Richardson,  Shakespeare  had  been 
perverted  by  the  dogma  that  the  dramatist  must  follow 

152 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

nature;  for  while  he  possessed  consummate  poetical 
genius,  he  lacked  philosophical  discernment.  In  con- 
sequence, he  had  been  misled  by  this  belief  into  that 
practice  of  introducing  comic  scenes  into  his  tragedy 
which  so  frequently  disgusts.  True,  the  passages  of 
this  sort  to  which  exception  had  been  taken  were 
natural.  But  all  things  that  are  natural  should  not  be 
represented.  At  this  point  was  deployed  the  well-worn 
assumption  which  had  been  called  upon  to  perform  its 
part  on  so  many  previous  critical  battle-fields.  We  are 
once  more  told  that  the  dissonant  emotions  produced 
by  the  tragic  and  the  comic  destroy  one  another,  and  the 
mind,  during  the  contest,  is  left  in  a  state  of  distraction. 
The  repute  of  tragi-comecty  undoubtedly  suffered 
from  the  presence  of  comic  scenes  which  had  no  genu- 
ine connection  with  the  play,  and  were  brought  in  for 
no  other  purpose  than  to  please  the  meanest  class  of  the 
populace.  An  unsatisfactory  effect  can  be  and  has  been 
produced  by  such  a  course.  It  is  the  fault,  for  illus- 
tration, of  'Don  Sebastian,'  regarded  by  some  as  the 
best  of  Dryden's  plays.  It  is  even  more  in  evidence 
in  his  last  tragedy,  '  Cleomenes,'  where  he  avowedly 
admitted  that  he  had  introduced  a  low  scene,  not  to 
help  forward  the  action,  but  merely  to  gratify  the  rabble. 
Such  a  discreditable  result  is  therefore  liable  to  follow 
the  concession  of  this  privilege  to  the  dramatist.  J  bit 
while  it  is  possible,  it  is  not  in  the  least  inevitable. 
In  every  instance,  therefore,  the  particular  work  under 
consideration  must  be  judged  on  its  individual  merits. 
If  the  comic  scenes  do  not  serve  to  advance  the  busi- 
ness of  the  play,  or  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  tragic 

153 


t 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

element,  then  their  insertion  is  "both  an  impertinence 
and  an  injury.  It  is  exactly  of  the  same  character  as 
the  actor's  wit  extemporized  in  order  to  make  laugh  a 
quantity  of  barren  spectators.  That  there  is  constant 
danger  of  the  abuse  of  this  privilege  of  introducing  the 
comic  may  be  conceded.  That  Shakespeare  himself 
appreciated  the  peril  is  plain  from  the  indignant  com- 
ment made  by  him  upon  the  pitiful  ambition  of  those 
who  take  the  part  of  the  fool,  and  the  stern  direction 
Hamlet  gives  the  players  that  the  clowns  shall  speak  no 
more  than  is  set  down  for  them.  But  while  he  recog- 
nized this  risk,  he  recognized  equally  well  the  impor- 
tance of  the  element  of  the  humorous  in  relieving  the 
strain  upon  the  feelings  of  too  prolonged  consideration 
of  the  serious,  as  well  as  its  adding  by  contrast  to  the 
effect  of  the  serious.  He  knew  better  than  did  his 
critics  how  close  life's  tragedy  stands  to  its  comedy.  It 
was  a  higher  art  than  that  of  the  schools  which  brought 
to  our  ears  the  conversation  of  the  grave -diggers,  and 
set  before  our  eyes  the  ghastly  preparations  for  burial. 
The  stolid  indifference  of  the  world  to  private  sorrow 
is  a  lesson  that  time  brings  home  to  us  all ;  but  nowhere 
has  it  been  more  strikingly  conveyed  than  in  the  care- 
less unconcern  and  trivial  talk  of  the  clowns  to  whom 
has  been  intrusted  the  charge  of  preparing  the  last 
resting-place  of  the  hapless  girl,  who  without  fault  of 
her  own  and  without  warning  has  been  struck  down,  in 
the  pride  of  youth,  from  love  and  happiness  and  high 
station  into  madness  and  doubtful  death. 

Exactly  the   same   mingling   of   the   comic  and    the 
tragic  can  be  frequently  observed  in   the  art  nearest 

154 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

allied  to  the  actor's,  —  that  of  the  orator.  In  the  very 
highest  efforts  of  the  latter,  the  humorous,  the  pathetic, 
and  the  sublime  are  often  found  in  close  juxtaposition. 
They  follow  one  another  at  the  briefest  of  intervals. 
For  all  that,  no  sense  of  incongruity  jars  upon  our  feel- 
ings, no  inappropriateness  strikes  us.  We  do  not  find 
ourselves  hindered  from  undergoing  the  keenest  sensa- 
tions of  sorrow,  pity,  or  wrath,  or  of  mental  or  spiritual 
elevation,  because  a  short  time  before  we  have  been 
stirred  to  heartiest  laughter.  The  springs  of  joy  and 
grief  lie  side  by  side;  and  it  is  in  the  power  of  the 
great  orator  to  cause  each  to  burst  forth  at  pleasure. 
He  is  at  liberty  to  confine  himself  to  but  one  of  many 
methods  of  appeal.  He  can  be  serious  throughout,  he 
can  be  humorous  throughout,  or  he  can  intermingle  the 
serious  and  the  humorous.  It  is  by  the  effect  he  pro- 
duces, not  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is  produced,  that 
the  excellence  of  his  course  is  to  be  tested.  If  he  suc- 
ceeds through  the  agency  of  the  one  or  the  other  exclu- 
sively, no  fault  can  be  found  with  him  for  so  limiting 
himself.  But  equally  is  it  true  that  no  fault  can  be 
found  with  him  if  he  chooses  to  call  into  action  both 
classes  of  emotions.  All  that  is  required  of  him  is  that 
what  he  does  must  conduce  properly  to  the  end  he  has 
in  view.  This  freedom  conceded  on  all  sides  to  the  ora- 
tor belongs  by  right  to  the  dramatist  also.  By  Shake- 
speare it  was  assumed  without  hesitation  and  without 
apology. 

From  this  bondage  of  the  so-called  proprieties,  as 
from  that  of  the  unities,  has  the  mighty  dramatist 
delivered  us.     The  comedies  and  tragedies  which  the 

155 


SHAKESPEARE  AS   A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

classicists  maintained  to  be  the  only  ones  that  could  be 
correct,  if  they  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature  at  all,  hold 
it  up  to  a  very  limited  aspect  of  nature,  or  to  an  aspect 
existing  for  a  very  limited  period.  It  can  be  great 
work  in  its  domain,  but  its  domain  is  restricted.  It  is 
the  enlarged  power  which  Shakespeare  gave  to  dramatic 
representation,  it  is  his  skill  in  raising  it  above  the 
restraint  of  mechanical  rules,  and  embracing  in  its 
vision  the  whole  field  of  human  life,  which  place  him  in 
some  respects  in  a  higher  position  than  even  that  which 
the  greatest  of  his  classical  predecessors,  cramped  by 
the  condition  of  their  theatre,  were  able  to  attain.  The 
ignorance  which  once  decried  his  methods  is  now  little 
heard;  or,  if  heard,  not  heeded.  Against  the  doc- 
trine of  the  unities  there  had  been,  during  the  course  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  a  good  deal  of  critical  protest. 
But  the  impropriety  of  mingling  the  comic  and  the 
tragic  in  the  same  piece  was  conceded  on  every  side. 
Johnson's  was  almost  the  solitary  voice  raised  in  its 
favor;  for  Walpole's  defence  of  the  practice,  though 
containing  suggestive  observations,  is  rather  an  expres- 
sion of  personal  opinion  than  an  argument.  The  estab- 
lished custom  was  either  to  inveigh  furiously  against  it 
or  to  deprecate  it  mildly ;  but  in  either  case  to  regard 
it  as  an  indefensible  violation  of  propriety. 

What  indeed  may  be  considered  the  official  critical 
view  of  the  eighteenth  century  on  this  point  was  indi- 
cated by  the  somewhat  heavy-headed  Lord  Lyttelton, 
who  brought  out  his  '  Dialogues  of  the  Dead  '  about  the 
same  time  that  Johnson  and  Walpole  were  putting  their 
opinions  upon  record.     One  of  these  dialogues  is  rep- 

156 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

resented  as  taking  place  between  Pope  and  Boileau. 
Shakespeare  is  the  main  subject  of  discussion.  Lyttel- 
ton  was  unconsciously  true  to  nature  in  representing 
the  French  critic  as  possessing  and  expressing  very 
positive  opinions  as  to  the  merits  of  the  English  author, 
though  he  had  never  read  and  could  not  have  read  a 
line  of  his  works.  Pope  makes  the  usual  apologies  of  his 
century  for  the  conduct  of  the  dramatist.  "  The  strange 
mixture  of  tragedy,  comedy  and  farce  in  the  same  play, 
nay  sometimes  in  the  same  scene,"  he  is  reported  as  say- 
ing, "I  acknowledge  to  be  quite  inexcusable.  But  this 
was  the  taste  of  the  time  when  Shakespeare  wrote." 
Naturally  the  purified  taste  which  had  come  to  prevail 
could  not  tolerate  such  impropriety.  Here,  as  else- 
where, critical  opinion  was  far  behind  popular  opinion. 
Long  after  Johnson  had  raised  the  standard  of  revolt, 
the  former  continued  to  exhibit  unflinching  firmness  in 
denouncing  the  mixture  of  the  serious  and  the  humor- 
ous. The  reviewers,  connected  with  the  periodical 
press,  kept  as  sharp  an  eye  out  for  this  violation  of 
decorum  as  they  did  for  the  disregard  of  the  unities. 
Cumberland,  for  instance,  produced  in  1783  his  tragedy 
of  'The  Mysterious  Husband. "  In  it  he  ran  counter 
to  several  well-established  conventions.  The  one,  how- 
ever, for  which  he  was  taken  sharply  to  task,  was  the 
appearance  in  his  piece  of  a  comic  character.  This 
was  a  sacrifice,  he  was  told,  that  the  earlier  drama- 
tists had  been  compelled  to  make  to  the  unpolished 
taste  of  their  times.  But  the  cause  no  longer  existed. 
There  was,  accordingly,  no  excuse  for  having  intro- 
duced humor  where  all  should  be  passion.     By  so  doing 

157 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

he  had  arrested  the  impressions  of  pity  and  terror,  in 
order  to  excite  laughter,  preferring  the  approbation  of 
the  ignorant  to  the  feelings  of  the  judicious.1 

This  was  the  established  critical  view.  Men  like 
Congreve,  Addison,  Young,  Thomson,  and  many  others 
strove  to  live  up  to  it;  but  a  large  number  were  in- 
different. Relying  upon  Shakespeare's  authority,  they 
went  to  lengths  which  Shakespeare  himself  would  never 
have  sanctioned.  They,  in  turn,  if  their  works  chanced 
to  be  popular,  were  subjected  to  censure,  and  in  occa- 
sional instances,  to  the  correction  implied  in  alteration. 
Southerne's  '  Oronooko  '  was  frequently  attacked,  not 
for  the  immorality  of  its  comic  scenes,  but  for  its  hav- 
ing any  comic  scenes  at  all.  Originally  produced  in 
1696,  it  remained  during  the  following  century  a  favor- 
ite of  the  theatre-going  public.  But  its  mixture  of  the 
humorous  and  the  pathetic  always  offended  the  advo- 
cates of  art,  and  in  1759  Hawkes worth  undertook  to 
alter  it  for  the  stage  in  such  a  way  as  to  remove  the 
reproach.  The  prologue  to  this  revised  version,  after 
praising  the  author  for  the  tragic  portion  of  his  play, 
went  on  to  add :  — 

"  Yet,  slave  to  custom  in  a  laughing  age, 
With  ribald  mirth  he  stained  the  sacred  page ; 
While  virtue's  shrine  he  reared,  taught  vice  to  mock, 
And  joined,  in  sport,  the  buskin  and  the  sock: 
O  !  haste  to  part  them !  —  burst  the  opprobrious  band  I 
Thus  Art  and  Nature  with  one  voice  demand." 

Nothing  indeed   shows  how  much   more  influential 
was  the  popular  to  what  may  be  called  the  professional 

1  Critical  Review,  vol.  lv.  p.  151. 
158 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

taste  than  the  fact  that  from  the  earliest  days  of  the 
Restoration  period  the  author,  when  he  set  out  to  write 
for  the  stage,  was  very  apt  to  cast  aside  the  accepted 
critical  view,  sometimes  even  when  enunciated  by  him- 
self, and  conform  to  practices  which  either  his  age  or 
he  himself  condemned.  Into  the  alteration  which  he 
made  of  Shakespeare's  'Richard  II,'  Tate  introduced 
comedy,  for  the  avowed  reason  that  he  judged  it  neces- 
sary so  to  do,  in  order  "  to  help  off  the  heaviness  of 
the  tale."  For  that  he  hoped  not  only  for  pardon  but 
for  approbation ;  and  further  supported  his  action  by 
the  authority  of  Dry  den,  who  had  declared  that  few 
tragedies  in  that  age  would  succeed,  unless  "  lightened 
with  a  course  of  mirth."  l  But  the  dereliction  of  Den- 
nis from  the  right  was  far  worse.  He  had  found  great 
fault  with  Shakespeare  for  bringing  into  the  play  of 
'  Coriolanus '  the  dregs  of  the  populace,  and  for  turning 
Menenius,  as  he  said,  into  an  errant  buffoon,  — something 
which  Shakespeare  was  very  far  from  doing.  By  this 
course  the  dramatist  had  offended  against  the  dignity 
of  tragedy.  Yet  in  his  alteration  of  the  play  Dennis 
added  a  good  deal  of  low  comedy  of  his  own.  It  was 
avowedly  done  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  please  the 
audience.  "I  desire  you,"  he  wrote,  "to  look  upon  it  as 
a  voluntary  fault  and  as  a  trespass  against  conviction."  2 
But  however  much  they  have  failed  when  they  came 
to  the  trial  themselves,  the  critics  always  held  up  be- 
fore others  the  orthodox  view.  During  the  eighteenth 
century  they  practically  had  it  all  their  own  way.     The 

1  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  the  Spanish  Friar. 

2  Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Tragedy  of  Shakespeare,  p.  35. 

159 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

correctness  of  their  theory  was  hardly  questioned  pub- 
licly, however  much  it  might  be  disparaged  privately, 
or  however  frequently  it  might  be  disregarded  in  prac- 
tice. Belief  in  the  impropriety  of  introducing  the 
humorous  into  tragedy,  like  the  belief  in  witchcraft, 
was  never  out-argued;  it  was  simply  outgrown.  A 
change  in  the  attitude  of  the  human  mind  on  this 
point  took  place  during  the  century,  apparently  with- 
out any  appeal  to  the  reason.  It  was  outgrown,  be- 
cause the  practice  of  Shakespeare  prevailed  by  the 
mere  weight  of  his  example.  Here,  as  in  other  ways, 
he  has  been  his  own  best  advocate.  .  The  steadily  in- 
creasing appreciation  of  his  superiority,  not  simply  as 
a  poet  but  as  a  dramatic  artist,  is  observable  in  the 
steadily  increasing  tendency  that  went  on  during  the 
eighteenth  century  to  reject  the  alterations  which  had 
been  made  in  his  plays  by  so-called  improvers,  and  to 
return  to  the  form  in  which  they  had  been  originally 
written.  Attempts  to  foist  new  alterations  upon  the 
poet  had  not  ceased,  indeed,  even  when  the  century  was 
nearing  its  close.  But  they  were  no  longer  carried  out 
on  an  extensive  scale.  They  were  no  longer  under- 
taken with  the  light  heart  and  easy  confidence,  which 
had  once  prevailed,  that  the  botcher  must  necessarily  be 
an  improver.  Above  all,  they  were  no  longer  received 
with  favor,  as  their  perpetrators  were  speedily  given 
to  understand. 

Yet  in  this  general  stream  of  tendency  there  occurred 
one  remarkable  eddy.  In  another  chapter  it  will  be 
necessary  to  give  some  account  of  the  havoc  which 
the  devotees  of  art  pure  and  undefiled  wrought  with 

160 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

the  works  of  the  dramatist  in  order  to  fit  them  for  the 
understanding  ages  which  had  succeeded  the  barbar- 
ous one  in  which  he  flourished.  Here,  however,  is 
a  fitting  place  to  relate  the  story  of  one  of  the  latest 
and  most  audacious  attempts  to  reform  Shakespeare  in 
accordance  with  the  demands  of  that  purified  taste 
which  could  not  away  with  the  introduction  of  hu- 
morous scenes  into  tragedy.  It  was  made  at  the  time 
when  classicism  had  entered  upon  its  downward  career; 
when  the  canons  of  art  it  was  wont  to  proclaim  arro- 
gantly had  begun  to  be  questioned  by  even  the  intel- 
lectually timid,  and  to  be  scouted  by  bolder  spirits. 
It  was  furthermore  made  by  a  very  genuine  admirer 
of  Shakespeare.  It  was  made  by  him  professedly  to 
purify  the  particular  drama  selected  from  the  debase- 
ment which  its  tragic  sternness  had  incurred  by  the 
introduction  of  comic  scenes.  The  play  operated  upon 
was  *  Hamlet ; '  the  improver  was  Garrick.  The  story 
of  its  alteration  is  worth  recording,  not  merely  because 
it  has  never  been  fully  told,  but  because  the  recep- 
tion accorded  to  it  brings  out  prominently  the  difference 
between  the  point  of  view  of  the  latter  parts  of  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.  Nothing  shows 
more  strikingly  the  long  road  which  taste  and  opinion 
had  travelled  during  the  hundred  and  more  years  which 
had  followed  the  Restoration. 

The  liberties  which  Garrick  had  previously  taken 
with  several  of  Shakespeare's  plays  had  been  some- 
what venturesome.  But  hitherto  he  had  done  no  more 
than  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  those"  who  had  preceded 
him  in  the  same  kind  of  work,  or  had  tried  his  hand 
U  1C1 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

on  pieces  which  were  scarcely  known  to  theatrical 
audiences.  But  'Hamlet'  was  in  a  different  position. 
It  had  been  and  was  not  only  exceedingly  popular, 
but  up  to  this  time  it,  like  'Othello,'  had  remained 
untouched  by  the  so-called  improver.  It  came  into 
Garrick's  mind  that  here  was  an  opportunity  to  remedy 
the  imperfections  under  which  the  play  labored  in  con- 
sequence of  its  having  been  produced  in  an  unpolished 
age.  We  find  him  actually  engaged  upon  the  task  of 
altering  it  in  1771,  though  we  know  from  his  corre- 
spondence that  he  had  contemplated  the  possibility  of 
so  doing  long  before.1  He  seems  to  have  communi- 
cated his  design  to  but  few.  Among  them  was  the 
future  commentator,  Steevens,  already  known  for  his 
interest  in  and  knowledge  of  Shakespeare.  From  him 
he  received  both  advice  and  encouragement.  He  wrote 
to  Garrick  that  he  expected  great  pleasure  from  his 
altered  '  Hamlet.'  That  play,  in  his  opinion,  was  a 
tragi-comedy ;  and  in  spite  of  all  that  Dr.  Johnson 
had  said  upon  the  subject,  he  should  never  be  recon- 
ciled to  tragi-comedy.  Shakespeare's  genius,  he  de- 
clared, had  deserted  him  in  the  last  two  acts.  Still  later 
in  this  same  letter  he  advised  Garrick  to  throw  what 
remained  of  the  play  after  his  omissions  into  a  farce, 
to  be  produced  as  an  after-piece.  This  was  to  be  en- 
titled 'The  Grave-Diggers,  with  the  Pleasant  Humors 
of  Osrick,  the  Danish  Maccaroni.'  "No  foreigner," 
he  added,  "who  should  happen  to  be  present  at  the 
exhibition  would  ever  believe  it  was  formed  out  of 
the  lappings  and  excrescences  of  the  tragedy  itself."2 

1  Garrick  Correspondence,  vol.  i.  p.  515.  2  lb.  p.  451  (1771). 

162 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

Steevens,  as  he  showed  later,  was  capable  at  times 
of  expressing  literary  opinions  that  are  interesting  for 
their  very  absurdity.  Still  no  one  ever  charged  him 
with  being  a  fool.  Garrick  may  be  pardoned  for  be- 
ing misled  by  his  approval.  He  knew  him  as  the 
patient  and  untiring  student  of  the  Elizabethan  drama. 
He  could  not  then  know  him,  as  we  know  him,  as 
probably  the  most  unscrupulous  as  well  as  one  of  the 
very  ablest  scamps  among  the  commentators  of  Shake- 
speare. There  was  no  happiness  dearer  to  his  heart 
than  to  witness  the  blunders  committed  by  such  as 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  what  he  called  his  friends. 
There  are  those  who  believe  that  in  his  encourage- 
ment  of  this  alteration  Steevens  was,  for  once  in  his 
life,  sincere.  There  can  be  little  question  as  to  the 
sardonic  glee  with  which  he  pretended  to  approve  the 
design  and  watched  the  progress  of  the  work.  His 
suggestion  of  the  after-piece  was  of  course  not  seri- 
ously given,  nor  is  there  any  likelihood  that  it  was  so 
received.  But  there  was  a  good  deal  in  what  he  said 
that  ought  to  have  opened  Garrick's  eyes  to  the  blunder 
he  was  committing.  "I  am  talking  a  kind  of  heresy," 
he  wrote,  after  the  disparaging  opinion  of  '  Hamlet '  just 
given ;  "  but  I  am  become  less  afraid  of  you,  since  you 
avowed  your  present  design."  1 

As  the  work  was  never  printed,  it  is  impossible  to 
tell  with  certainty  either  the  nature  or  extent  of  the 
alterations.  Incidental  references,  not  conveying  any 
specific  information,  are  made  to  it  in  contemporary 
literature ;  but  there  are  two  short  accounts  of  it,  one 

1  Garrick  Correspondence,  vol.  i.  p.  451. 
1G3 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

given  by  a  man  who  had  heard  it,1  and  another  by 
a  man  who  saw  or  thought  he  saw  the  manuscript.2 
These  two,  while  agreeing  in  the  main,  differ  occa- 
sionally in  details,  especially  in  regard  to  certain  par- 
ticulars of  the  catastrophe.  In  spite  of  these  variations 
the  following  account  may  be  trusted  as  a  fairly  correct 
representation,  as  far  as  it  goes,  of  the  alterations 
introduced.  The  acts  were  divided  differently,  the 
changes  were  few,  and  those  were  generally  in  the 
form  of  omission.  Garrick  himself  wrote  to  Hoadly, 
his  clerical  friend,  that  he  had  added  but  twenty- 
five  lines  in  all  to  the  whole  play.3  But  the  excisions 
took  place  on  an  extensive  scale,  especially  in  the  last 
part.  They  were  directed  mainly  to  the  removal  of 
humorous  passages.  The  voyage  to  England,  however, 
was  omitted,  as  was  also  the  execution  of  Rosencranz 
and  Guildenstern.  The  plot  arranged  between  the 
king  and  Laertes  was  also  much  changed,  and  the 
character  of  the  latter  was  thereby  made  more  esti- 
mable. The  grave-diggers'  scene,  that  stench  in  the 
nostrils  of  the  judicious,  was  swept  away  entirely. 
Osric  also  disappeared.  Ophelia  was  deprived  of  her 
funeral,  and  passed  out  of  the  play  with  no  record 
of  the  fate  that  had  befallen  her.  Hamlet  was  repre- 
sented as  bursting  in  upon  the  court  with  the  resolution 
to  revenge  his  father.  An  altercation  with  the  king 
was  followed  by  a  duel  in  which  the  king  was  slain. 
The   miserable  queen  did  not   perish  in  the  sight  of 

1  Davies'  Dramatic  Miscellanies,  vol.  iii.  p.  151. 

2  Boaden's  Life  of  Kemble,  vol.  i.  p.  110. 
8  Garrick  Correspondence,  vol.  i.  p.  515. 

164 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND  TRAGIC 

the  audience  from  the  effects  of  poison,  but  after  the 
killing  of  her  husband  rushed  out  of  the  presence- 
chamber,  became  frantic  and  prepared  to  die  in  the 
most  approved  French  fashion  behind  the  scenes. 
Hamlet  himself,  in  a  duel  which  took  place  with 
Laertes,  was  mortally  wounded.  Up  to  this  point  the 
two  accounts  agree  ;  at  least  they  do  not  conflict. 
But  henceforth  there  is  a  variation  in  the  details. 
According  to  the  one  account  Laertes  also  fell  mor- 
tally wounded.1  According  to  the  other  —  which  is, 
on  the  whole,  preferable  —  Laertes  was  about  to  meet 
his  death  at  the  hands  of  Horatio,  when  the  dying 
Hamlet  interfered.  He  joined  the  hands  of  the  two, 
and  commended  to  their  united  effort  the  care  of  the 
troubled  land.2 

It  was  probably  impossible  for  Garrick  to  preserve 
the  unities  in  his  altered  version.  Perhaps  no  attempt 
was  made  to  do  so.  Yet  the  changes  introduced  seem 
to  have  had  the  effect  of  making  their  violation  com- 
paratively inconspicuous.  The  worst  defiance  of  them 
in  the  original  was  to  all  appearances  eliminated.  It 
had  grieved  mightily  the  soul  of  Voltaire  that  at  the 
beginning  of  the  play  Fortinbras  had  been  represented 
as  setting  out  with  his  army  for  Poland,  and  at  the 
very  close  as  having  returned  from  its  conquest.  In 
the  altered  version  he  plainly  did  not  return,  if  indeed 
he  went  forth.  In  truth,  as  far  as  can  be  collected  from 
the  conflicting  accounts  of  this  revision,  the  subsidiary 
characters  became  more  subsidiary  than  ever.  In  its 
original  form  '  Hamlet '  is  a  tragedy  in  which  the  actor 

1  By  Davies.  2  By  Boaden. 

165 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

who  plays  the  title-role  has  to  divide  the  honors  less 
with  subordinate  performers  than  in  any  other  one  of 
Shakespeare's  greater  plays.  This  is  a  main  reason 
why  it  is  so  frequently  selected  by  youthful  aspirants 
for  histrionic  reputation.  It  furnishes  peculiar  oppor- 
tunities to  the  actor  who  is  seeking  to  gain  for  himself 
a  name.  Garrick  by  his  alterations  made  this  char- 
acteristic even  more  pronounced.  One  result  of  this 
procedure  —  according  to  his  enemies,  the  object  of 
it  —  was  to  reduce  the  consequence  of  the  other  parts 
and  to  increase  that  of  the  principal  one.  On  this 
last  the  omissions  tended  to  concentrate  still  more  the 
attention  of  the  audience.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
justification  for  the  criticism  of  the  version  by  Steevens's 
follower,  Isaac  Reed,  that  the  alterations  had  been  made 
by  Garrick  in  the  true  spirit  of  Bottom,  who  wished  to 
play  not  only  the  part  assigned  him  but  all  the  rest  of 
the  piece.1 

The  play  thus  mutilated  was  brought  out  at  Drury 
Lane  on  the  eighteenth  of  December,  1772.2  There 
was  evidently  anxiety  as  to  the  reception  it  might 
meet.  This  seems  hardly  necessary,  for  Garrick's 
wonderful  performance  would  have  been  enough  to  in- 
sure from  hostile  treatment  a  play  in  which  he  took  so 
prominent  a  part,  even  if  it  did  not  meet  with  posi- 
tive applause.  Still  the  uneasiness  existed.  From 
Hoadly  he  received  soon  after  an  inquiry  upon  this 
very  point.  "  How  did  the  galleries  behave,"  he  asked, 
"  when  they  found  themselves  deprived  of  their  grave- 

1  Biographia  Dramatica,  under  Hamlet,  ed.  of  1782. 
3  Genest's  English   Stage,  1000-1830,  vol.  v.  p.  343. 

166 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

diggers?  Or  did  they  not  miss  them?  That  would 
be  the  greatest  applause  to  your  alterations."  :  What- 
ever might  be  the  feelings  of  the  galleries,  it  was  as- 
sumed that  the  new  version  would  meet  with  the 
unqualified  approval  of  the  boxes,  and  of  the  critics 
who  stationed  themselves  in  the  pit.  "  The  judicious," 
however,  had  now  begun  to  be  a  scattered  people  in 
England.  Furthermore  they  no  longer  received  that 
frank  acknowledgment  of  their  superiority  which  had 
once  been  conceded  to  them  ungrudgingly.  Still  the 
small  proportion  that  had  survived  from  the  multi- 
tude of  former  generations  were  unquestionably  pleased. 
One  of  these,  who  has  left  us  a  record  of  his  sentiments, 
was  Edward  Taylor.  The  son  of  a  church  dignitary, 
he  had  spent  several  years  of  study  and  travel  abroad, 
and  had  come  back  to  England  in  full  possession  of  the 
refined  taste  of  the  continent.  About  a  year  and  a 
half  after  the  production  of  this  altered  '  Hamlet '  he 
brought  out  some  '  Cursory  Remarks,'  as  he  called 
them,  on  tragedy  and  on  Shakespeare.  He  hailed  the 
abolition  of  the  grave-diggers'  scene,  so  unworthy  of 
the  dramatist,  as  evidence  of  the  approaching  triumph 
of  taste.  "  To  the  credit  of  the  present  times,  indeed," 
he  wrote,  "these  puerilities  are  now  omitted.  Let  us 
hope  that  they  will  not  be  the  only  ones,  nor  let  us 
be  afraid  to  reject  what  our  ancestors,  in  conformity 
to  the  grosser  notions  then  prevalent,  beheld  with  pleas- 
ure and  applause."  2 

1  Garrick  Correspondence,  vol.  i.  p.  515. 

2  Page  40.  See  also  an  apparent  approval  of  the  version  in  a  piece 
called  "  Conversation  " :  reproduced  in  the  New  Foundling  Hospital  for 
Wit,  vol.  ii.  pp.  180-190. 

167 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

Far  more  enthusiastic  was  the  reception  accorded  to 
this  alteration  in  France  by  the  party  there  that  dreaded 
the  effects  of  the  growing  interest  in  Shakespeare,  and 
the  growing  admiration  of  his  methods  which  were 
beginning  to  manifest  themselves  in  that  country. 
Marmontel  not  only  welcomed  the  version  with  exulta- 
tion, but  he  gave  an  account  of  its  reception  by  the 
English  public,  which  if  not  the  product  of  his 
own  imagination,  was  communicated  to  him  exclu- 
sively. "Every  day,"  he  wrote,  "the  works  of  Shake- 
speare are  abridged,  are  corrected.  The  celebrated 
Garrick  has  just  cut  out  upon  his  stage  the  grave- 
diggers'  scene  and  almost  all  the  fifth  act.  Both  piece 
and  author  have  been  only  the  more  applauded."  This 
felicitation  of  his  disciple  over  the  triumph  which  true 
art  had  achieved,  Voltaire  embodied  later  in  his  noted 
'  Letter  to  the  French  Academy  '  which  was  read  at  the 
meeting  of  August  25,  1776.  He  was  then  waging 
war  with  Le  Tourneur's  translation  of  Shakespeare, 
and  Garrick's  action  had  brought  him  peculiar  grati- 
fication. It  constituted  a  reproof  to  the  perverted 
enthusiasts  of  his  native  land  who  were  seeking  to 
fasten  upon  France  the  acceptance  of  those  barbar- 
ous atrocities  which  the  reviving  taste  of  England 
was  beginning  to  cast  aside. 

Neither  Taylor's  anticipation  of  future  improvements 
of  the  same  sort,  nor  Marmontel's  belief  that  England 
was  turning  at  last  tfjthe  better  way,  was  destined  to 
be  realized.  Garrick's  extraordinar}'-  ability  sustained 
the  altered  version  while  he  himself  was  acting.  His 
influence   kept  it  on  the  Drury   Lane  stage  for  some 

168 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND    TRAGIC 

time  after  he  had  retired.  But  it  is  clear  that  the 
changes  which  he  had  made  met  with  silent  disfavor, 
where  they  did  not  receive  outspoken  condemnation. 
The  time  had  gone  by  for  any  new  liberties  of  this 
sort  to  be  taken  with  approval ;  it  was  a  good  deal, 
even,  that  they  could  be  taken  with  impunity.  "  No 
bribe,"  says  Reed,  "but  his  own  inimitable  perform- 
ance could  have  prevailed  on  an  English  audience  to 
sit  patiently  and  behold  the  martyrdom  of  their  favorite 
author." 1  This  statement  is  not  strictly  true.  The 
version  was  played  by  other  actors  while  he  was  still 
manaofer,  and  also  after  he  had  left  the  stage.  But 
it  was  never  liked.  "  The  spectators  of  Hamlet,"  says 
Davies,  somewhat  sadly,  "  would  not  part  with  their 
old  friends,  the  grave-diggers.  The  people  soon  called 
for  '  Hamlet,'  as  it  had  been  acted  from  time  immemo- 
rial." 2  What  was  most  painful  of  all  was  that  the  altera- 
tion met  with  but  little  favor  from  the  judicious  who, 
it  was  expected,  would  welcome  with  delight  the  re- 
jection of  what  Garrick  termed  the  rubbish  of  the  fifth 
act.  Walpole  communicated  the  news  of  what  the  actor 
had  done  to  his  correspondent  Mason.  "I  hope,"  was 
his  accompanying  sarcastic  comment,  "  he  will  be  re- 
warded with  a  place  in  the  French  Academy."  3 

It  did  not,  indeed,  take  Garrick  long  to  become 
aware  of  the  peril  which  he  was  running.  He  had 
made  arrangements  to  publish  his  altered  version.  He 
speedily  abandoned  the  project.     Re  gave  further  evi- 

1  In  Bioiiraphia  Dramatica,  under  Hamlet,  ed.  of  1782. 

2  Davies'  Dramatic  Miscellanies,  vol.  iii.  p.  153. 

3  Correspondence  of  Walpole  and  Mason,  vol.  i.  p.  48. 

1G9 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

dence  of  the  fear  which  had  taken  hold  of  him.  Not 
only  was  the  altered  play  not  printed,  but  no  written 
copies  of  it  were  allowed  to  get  into  circulation.  The 
actor,  Tate  Wilkinson,  then  patentee  of  the  York  and 
other  theatres  in  the  North,  applied  for  one  in  vain. 
"It  is  not  in  my  power  to  comply  with  your  request 
to  send  you  the  corrections  lately  made  in  '  Hamlet,' " 
wrote  in  reply  Victor,  the  treasurer  of  Drury  Lane  ; 
**  but  no  such  favor  can  be  granted  to  any  one,  as  I  pre- 
sume the  play  will  never  be  printed  so  altered,  as  they 
are  far  from  being  universally  approved ;  nay,  in  general 
greatly  disliked  by  the  million ;  —  therefore,  no  doubt, 
your  country  'squires  would  be  for  horsewhipping  the 
actor  that  had  struck  out  that  natural  scene  of  the 
grave-diggers."  Victor  then  went  on  to  point  out 
that  Hamlet's  consenting  to  go  to  England,  and  be- 
ing brought  back  by  miracle,  is  altogether  absurd, 
when  his  solemn  engagement  with  his  father's  ghost 
is  duly  considered.  Then  unconsciously  he  revealed  the 
superiority  of  the  judgment  of  the  masses  to  his  own. 
"  As  I  have  already  observed,"  he  concluded,  "  the 
million  will  like,  nay  understand  Shakespeare  with 
all  his  glorious  absurdities,  nor  suffer  a  bold  intruder 
to  cut  them  up."  1 

The  only  consolation  that  could  be  received  for  this 
attitude  of  the  artistically  unregenerate  was  that  they 
were  incapable  of  reaching  the  elevated  plane  which 
their  betters  occupied.  There  were  some  of  Garrick's 
admirers,  however,  who  stood  by  him  manfully,  and 
without    doubt    approved    in   fullest    sincerity   of    his 

1  Wilkinson's  Memoirs  of  his  own  Life,  vol.  iv.  p.  260. 

170 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

course.      One   of    them   complained,   that   he   had   not 

gone   far   enough.      "  Twenty-five   lines   only   added," 

wrote    Hoadly,    when    his    friend   sent    him   word    to 

that  effect:   "I  fear  too  little  has  been  done."1     This 

writer,  who  was  a  clergyman  for  livelihood,  and  would 

have  been  a  dramatist  if  he  had  had  sufficient  ability,  had 

felt  somewhat  hurt  because  he  had  not  been  consulted 

about  this  revision.      It  was  a  matter  which  he   had 

more  than  once  discussed  with  the  actor.     His  inborn 

discernment  and  educated  taste  had  indicated  to  him 

numerous   places   where    Shakespeare's   work   required 

improvement.     The  behavior  to  each  other  of  Hamlet 

and    Ophelia  ■  was  in    his   opinion   a  part   that   needed 

and  most  admitted  great  alteration.     The  conduct  of 

the   hero  towards  the  heroine,  in   particular,  had  not 

been   sufficiently   worked   out   by   the    dramatist.     No 

adequate   cause   had    been   given   to   account   for   the 

madness   and   death   of    the   latter.      This    could   and 

should  be  remedied;  and  here  was  the  way  in  which 

it  was  done  in  one    instance.      The  concluding   lines 

of    Hamlet's    soliloquy   end    with    his    recognition    of 

Ophelia  in  these  words,  — 

"  Soft  you  now  ! 
The  fair  Ophelia  !  " 

Then  follows  the  request  to  be  remembered  in  her 
prayers.  After  Hamlet's  recognition  of  her  presence, 
but  before  he  addresses  her  personally,  Hoadly  sug- 
gested that  the  following  lines  should  be  added  to 
the  soliloquy,  which  would  explain  to  the  satisfaction 
of  everybody  the  prince's  subsequent  conduct :  — 

1  Garrick  Correspondence,  vol.  i.  p.  515. 
171 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

"  I  have  made  too  free 
With  that  sweet  lady's  ear.     My  place  in  Denmark, 
The  time's  misrule,  my  heavenly-urged  revenge, 
Matters  of  giant-stature,  gorge  her  love, 
As  fish  the  cormorant.  —  She  drops  a  tear, 
As  from  her  book  she  steals  her  eyes  on  me. 
My  heart !     Could  I  in  my  assumed  distraction 
(Bred,  says  the  common  voice,  from  love  of  her) 
Drive  her  sad  mind  from  all  so  ill-timed  thoughts 
Of  me,  of  mad  ambition,  and  this  world! 
Nymph,  in  thy  orisons  be  my  sins  remembered." 1 

These  priceless  lines  show  us  what  the  eighteenth 
century  could  do  when  it  set  out  seriously  to  reform 
Shakespeare,  to  correct  his  negligence  and  refine  his 
ruggedness  in  accordance  with  the  requirements  of 
taste  and  art. 

The  altered  'Hamlet'  held  the  stage  at  Drury  Lane 
for  nearly  eight  years.  But  it  was  not  often  played. 
The  audience  might  put  up  with  the  version;  but 
they  plainly  did  not  love  it.  In  this  feeling  high 
and  low  concurred.  Accordingly,  on  April  21,  1780, 
little  more  than  a  year  after  Garrick's  death,  Hamlet 
was  advertised  to  be  acted  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it.2 
Contemporary  testimony  shows  that  the  abandonment 
of  the  alteration  took  place,  not  under  the  compulsion  of 
active  hostility,  manifested  according  to  the  then  usual 
custom  in  the  playhouse  itself,  but  simply  in  conse- 
quence of  the  refusal  of  people  to  attend  the  perform- 
ance of  the  piece.  "  Since  the  death  of  the  player,"  said 
Reed  in  1782,  « the  public  has  vindicated  the  rights  of 
the  poet  by  starving  the  theatre  into  compliance  with 

1  Garrick  Correspondence,  vol.  i.  p.  573.   Letter  dated  Sept.  30,  1773. 

2  Genest,  vol.  vi.  p.  133. 

172 


INTERMINGLING   OF  COMIC  AND   TRAGIC 

their  wishes  to  see  Hamlet  as  originally  meant  for 
exhibition."  l  Thus  early  disappeared  from  the  boards 
the  alteration  so  long  desired  by  a  certain  class.  It 
was  practically  the  last  serious  attempt  upon  Shake- 
speare which  correctness  made  as  a  tribute  to  an  as- 
sumed higher  taste.  Some  of  Kemble's  later  versions 
were  even  viler;  but  they  were  not  original.  That 
actor  only  refashioned  what  others  had  previously  ac- 
complished. Garrick's  course  in  this  matter  is  one  of 
which  explanation  can  be  given,  but  for  which  defence 
cannot  be  made.  The  student  of  English  constitu- 
tional history  has  frequent  occasion  to  observe  how 
infinitely  superior  has  sometimes  been  the  stupidity 
of  juries  to  the  wisdom  of  judiciaries.  Examples  of 
a  similar  sort  do  not  so  often  meet  the  eye  of  the 
student  of  literary  history.  Still  they  are  to  be  found. 
Among  them  there  is  perhaps  no  more  striking  illustra- 
tion than  the  present,  of  the  superiority  of  judgment 
sometimes  shown  by  the  great  mass  of  men  to  that 
arrogantly  boasted  of  by  the  select  body  of  self-ap- 
pointed arbiters  of  taste  and  guardians  of  dramatic 
propriety. 

1  Biographia  Dramatica,  ed.  of  1782,  under  Hamlet. 


173 


CHAPTER  V 

REPRESENTATIONS   OF   VIOLENCE   AND   BLOODSHED 

The  violation  of  the  unities,  the  intermixture  of  comic 
scenes  with  tragic  were  two  faults  which  in  the  eyes 
of  the  classicists  placed  an  ineffaceable  stigma  upon  the 
romantic  drama.  About  their  essential  depravity  both 
continental  and  English  critics  were  agreed.  Shake- 
speare, in  consequence  of  his  exemplifying  these  atroci- 
ties, was  regularly  made  the  subject  of  the  tale  which 
he  was  not  thought  to  adorn,  and  served  constantly  to 
point  its  moral.  It  is  true  that  he  had  not  acted  dif- 
ferently from  almost  every  one  of  his  contemporaries. 
They  were  as  regardless  of  these  rules  as  he.  But 
while  others  had  sinned  as  much  against  art,  he  was 
the  only  one  who  had  really  survived.  He  was  the 
only  one  who  continued  to  impress  himself  upon  suc- 
cessive generations.  Particular  plays  of  certain  of  his 
contemporaries  —  Fletcher  especially,  and  occasionally 
Jonson  and  Massinger  —  were  from  time  to  time  re- 
fitted for  the  stage  and  brought  out  during  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  But  they  had  at  best  but  a  partial 
success  ;  they  often  met  with  positive  failure.  "  It 
may  be  remembered,"  said  Colman  in  1763,  "  that  '  The 
Spanish  Curate,' '  The  Little  French  Lawyer,'  and  '  Scorn- 
ful Lady'  of  our  authors,"  —  that  is,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  —  "  as  well  as  '  The  Silent  Woman '  of  Jonson, 

174 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

all  favorite  entertainments  of  out  predecessors,  have 
within  these  few  years  encountered  the  severity  of  the 
pit,  and  received  sentence  of  condemnation."  l  But  of 
Shakespeare  nothing  of  this  sort  could  be  said.  His 
reign  had  never  been  disturbed.  He  had  not  only 
kept  unbroken  possession  of  the  theatre,  but  was  con- 
stantly extending  his  occupancy.  It  was  therefore 
upon  him  that  the  weight  of  criticism  fell. 

But  a  third  grand  distinction  existed  between  the 
classical  and  the  romantic  drama.  The  French  theatre 
—  and  the  French  theatre  for  a  long  time  gave  the  law 
to  continental  Europe  —  had  made  an  advance  upon  the 
ancient  in  the  -rigidity  of  its  requirements.  It  restricted 
the  liberty  of  representation  to  exceedingly  narrow 
bounds.  In  particular,  it  carried,  to  an  extreme,  hos- 
tility to  the  introduction  of  scenes  of  violence.  The 
audience  were  to  be  treated  with  the  tenderest  con- 
sideration. Nothing  was  to  take  place  on  the  stage 
that  could  offend  the  susceptibilities  of  the  most  fas- 
tidious. No  blood  was  to  be  shed  in  the  sight  of  the 
spectator.  There  was  indeed  one  singular  modification 
of  this  restriction.  A  character  in  the  tragedy  could 
be  permitted  to  kill  himself,  whether  he  did  it  by  poison 
or  steel :  what  he  was  not  suffered  to  do  was  to  kill 
some  one  else.  And  while  nothing  was  to  be  shown 
on  the  stas^e  which  could  offend  the  feelings  through 
the  medium  of  the  eyes,  equally  was  nothing  to  be 
narrated  with  the  accompaniment  of  any  adjuncts  that 
could  possibly  arouse  disagreeable  sensations  in  the 
mind.     Voltaire   tells   us   how  he   was    stirred   in  the 

1  Advertisement  to  the  alteration  of  Fhilaster,  17G3. 

175 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

English  theatre  by  seeing  Brutus  harangue  the  people, 
while  holding  in  his  hand  the  bloody  knife  with  which 
he  had  just  stabbed  Csesar.  He  somewhat  regretfully 
remarked  that  no  such  method  of  representation  would 
have  been  tolerated  on  the  French  stage,  any  more  than 
would  have  been  an  assemblage  made  up  of  Roman  plebe- 
ians and  artisans.  No  bleeding  body  of  the  dead  dictator 
co aid  have  been  exposed  in  public.  He  was  inclined 
to  think  —  at  least  at  first  —  that  in  this  respect  the 
French  stage  had  gone  too  far.  Here  were  legitimate 
opportunities  for  stage  effect  which  it  had  deliberately 
abandoned.  At  other  times  he  was  disposed  to  justify 
its  course.  Scenes  like  these  just  mentioned,  he  ad- 
mitted, were  natural ;  but  a  French  audience  expected 
that  nature  should  always  be  presented  with  some 
strokes  of  art. 

On  their  stage  consequently  all  deeds  of  violence  had 
to  be  narrated.  Their  actual  performance  took  place  be- 
hind the  scenes.  The  audience  learned  of  them  from 
the  mouth  of  some  eyewitness  who  came  to  tell  it 
what  had  happened.  This  method  might  spare  the 
sensibilities  of  the  hearers,  but  it  assuredly  did  not 
add  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  play.  One  finds  his 
admiration  of  the  great  French  dramatists  increasing 
when  he  recognizes  under  what  limitations  they  la- 
bored. Nor  need  we  shut  our  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
the  method  thus  forced  upon  them  had  the  advantages 
of  its  defects.  It  acted  as  a  spur  to  the  writer.  It 
compelled  him,  in  particular,  to  pay  attention  to  ex- 
pression. Conscious  that  the  success  of  his  production 
would  be  little  aided  by  attractions  which  appealed  to 

176 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

the  eye,  but  must  depend  largely  upon  those  which 
addressed  the  ear,  he  made  up,  so  far  as  in  him  lay, 
for  failure  of  action,  by  interest  of  narration,  by  beauty 
of  description,  and  by  all  possible  charm  of  verse.  Ex- 
quisite poetry  could  undoubtedly  add  to  the  interest 
of  dramatic  action.  The  problem  which  the  French 
author  was  called  upon  to  solve  was  the  extent  to 
which  it  could  be  made  to  take  its  place. 

At  this  point  the  stages  of  the  two  nations  diverged. 
During  the  period  of  which  we  are  speaking,  the  Eng- 
lish critics  had  almost  universally  consented  to  the 
exceeding  wickedness  of  the  negative  sin  of  disregard- 
ing the  unities,  and  to  the  positive  crime  of  intro- 
ducing comic  matter  into  tragedy.  But  here  as  a  body 
they  stopped.  They  were  no  more  satisfied  than  were 
English  audiences,  with  plays  in  which  narration  took 
the  place  of  action.  There  were  those  indeed,  as  we 
shall  have  occasion  to  observe,  who  sympathized  with 
the  French  attitude.  Some  of  them  too  were  men  of 
high  literary  and  social  position.  On  these  accounts 
deference  was  paid  to  their  opinions ;  but  after  all  it 
was  only  in  a  half-hearted  way  that  their  views  were 
supported  by  those  who  professed  to  follow  their  au- 
thority. Hence  what  is  the  third  great  distinction 
between  the  classical  and  the  romantic  school  extended 
largely  to  theory  as  well  as  practice.  The  distinction 
is  implied  in  the  following  queries :  What  is  permis- 
sible to  be  shown  upon  the  stage  ?  What  is  forbidden  ? 
Or  at  least  what  is  inexpedient  ?  These  are  questions 
that  always  present  themselves  to  the  dramatic  author 
in  the  construction,  and  to  the  dramatic  critic  in  the 
12  177 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

consideration,  of  plays  which  involve  the  results  of 
violence  and  bloodshed.  One  business  of  a  tragedy 
is  to  make  away  with  people.  How  can  this  best  be 
done,  not  effectually  as  regards  the  personages  of  the 
play,  but  effectively  as  regards  the  persons  present  to 
see  and  hear?  Will  it  produce  the  most  gratifying 
impression  upon  the  audience  to  despatch  the  characters 
of  the  drama  before  their  eyes,  or  to  dispose  of  them 
behind  the  scenes,  and  let  the  knowledge  of  what  has 
occurred  reach  them  through  the  medium  of  their  ears  ? 
The  classicists  maintained  stoutly  that  acts  of  violence 
should  always  be  narrated  and  never  represented.  Ac- 
cording to  their  view  that  which  would  be  disagreeable 
or  painful  to  see  in  real  life  should  never  be  brought 
before  us  on  the  stage.  Hence  in  their  drama  not  even 
the  quietest  and  most  commonplace  of  murders  could 
be  perpetrated  in  the  sight  of  the  spectators,  for  fear 
of  shocking  their  feelings. 

But  the  Teutonic  nations,  at  least  the  English,  never 
took  kindly  to  expedients  of  this  nature.  They  wanted 
to  see  the  business  done  themselves,  and  not  get  their 
knowledge  of  it  from  the  reports  of  interested  or  pre- 
judiced observers.  At  the  outset  they  unquestionably 
carried  this  feeling  to  an  extreme.  Our  ancestors  were 
very  much  like  children  who  never  enjoy  a  story  so 
much  as  when  it  makes  them  shudder.  "  I  wants  to 
make  your  flesh  creep,"  says  the  fat  boy  in  '  Pickwick  ' 
to  Mrs.  "Wardle ;  and  to  have  the  flesh  creep  all  the 
while  was  an  end  frequently  aimed  at  in  the  early 
tragedy  of  England.  It  was  given  to  the  shedding 
of  blood  on  a  grand  scale.     At  times  the  boards  fairly 

178 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

swim  in  gore,  as  character  after  character  is  despatched. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  in  the  rude  beginnings  of 
the  stage  the  audience,  made  up  of  all  classes  in  the 
community,  enjoyed  this  kind  of  treat.  The  coarse 
plenty  of  the  feast  was  more  than  a  compensation  for 
its  lack  of  flavor  and  elegance.  Provided  there  was 
an  ample  supply  of  deeds  of  violence,  they  were  ready 
to  excuse  the  neglect  of  providing  any  motive  for 
the  acts,  or  the  neglect  of  probability  throughout  the 
entire  action. 

There  is,  however,  a  medium  between  the  tameness 
of  the  classical  school  and  the  extravagance  of  the 
romantic.  The  adherents  of  the  former,  by  the  ex- 
treme aversion  they  manifested  to  the  shedding  of 
blood,  were  as  eager  to  abolish  the  death  penalty  on 
the  stage  as  the  most  pronounced  sentimentalist  is  now 
in  general  legislation.  They  consequently  abandoned 
opportunities  of  producing  certain  perfectly  legitimate 
impressions.  Especially  did  they  deprive  themselves 
of  the  ability  to  make  use  of  pathetic  and  telling  situa- 
tions, which  add  often  to  the  effectiveness  of  a  play, 
and  afford  no  just  reason  to  suppose  that  any  outrage 
will  be  offered  to  the  feelings  of  the  most  sensi- 
tive.  A  duel  upon  the  stage,  if  properly  conducted, 
gives  vividness  to  the  action  ;  it  never  fills  us  with 
serious  apprehension.  We  may  have  the  keenest  in- 
terest aroused  in  the  struggle  ;  but  we  experience  no  grief 
when  we  see  one  of  the  combatants  fall.  He  is  simply 
carrying  on  the  necessary  business  of  the  play.  His 
assumed  death,  accordingly,  excites  no  more  painful 
emotion  in  our  souls  than  if  we  had  learned  that  he 

179 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

had  just  stepped  out  into  the  next  street.  We  do  not 
even  object  to  an  occasional  assassination,  provided  it 
be  done  with  decency  and  discretion.  If  it  is  merely 
a  plain  businesslike  despatching  of  a  character,  of 
whom  it  is  desirable  to  get  rid,  its  effect  upon  our 
sensibilities  is  far  less  than  if  in  our  daily  walk  we 
should  chance  to  come  across  the  actual  killing  of 
some  dumb  animal  of  even  a  low  grade. 

But  art  which  takes  pleasure  in  the  pathetic,  and  does 
not  altogether  shrink  from  the  painful,  can  never  well 
put  up  with  the  revolting  and  merely  horrible.  In 
representations  of  this  sort  the  early  English  stage 
went  to  great  lengths.  Those  plays  which  furnished 
the  greatest  number  of  scenes  of  blood  were  among  the 
more  successful,  and  frequently  remained  popular  for 
long  periods.  Even  after  a  purer  taste  had  in  large 
measure  supplanted  them  with  the  majority,  the  crav- 
ing for  this  particular  species  of  intellectual  diet  con- 
tinued to  linger  with  individuals.  "He  that  will 
swear,"  says  Ben  Jonson,  in  1614,  in  the  Induction 
to  '  Bartholomew  Fair,'  "  Jeronimo  or  Andronicus  are 
the  best  plays  yet,  shall  pass  unexcepted  here,  as 
a  man  whose  judgment  shows  it  is  constant,  and 
hath  stood  still  these  five  and  twenty  or  thirty  years. 
Though  it  be  an  ignorance,  it  is  a  virtuous  and  staid 
ignorance."  These  words  make  clear  that  more  than  one 
theatre-goer  of  the  early  time,  after  wandering  about 
in  what  seemed  to  him  the  later  barren  wilderness  of 
sentiment,  looked  back  with  a  sigh  to  the  strong  stim- 
ulus which  pieces  of  this  sort  afforded  to  his  jaded 
nerves.     The  larger  proportion  of  such  early  plays  have 

180 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

perished.  Still  there  are  a  sufficient  number  of  ex« 
amples  extant  to  reveal  the  nature  of  the  taste  which 
caused  their  creation. 

Perhaps  no  fairer  specimen  of  this  kind  of  drama 
exists  than  the  second  part  of  '  Jeronimo, '  called  '  The 
Spanish  Tragedy,'  which  has  just  been  mentioned. 
The  popularity  of  this  play  during  the  early  years  of 
Shakespeare's  professional  life  is  attested  by  ample  evi- 
dence. Lines  taken  from  it  are  constantly  bandied 
about  by  the  characters  in  the  contemporary  or  later 
drama.  Usually,  and  perhaps  invariably,  this  is  done 
in  sport ;  but  the  play  would  never  have  been  ridiculed, 
had  not  passages  in  it  been  made  familiar  by  the  fre- 
quent representation  of  the  piece  on  the  stage.  Further- 
more, Ben  Jonson's  words  furnish  direct  testimony  to 
the  favor  with  which  it  had  been  regarded.  The  secret 
of  this  favor  is  not  hard  to  find.  Murder  goes  on  in  it 
at  the  very  liveliest  rate.  The  last  act  in  particular 
contributes  a  quota  of  six  corpses  to  the  grand  total 
which  is  heaped  upon  the  stage  in  the  course  of  the 
performance.  In  truth,  the  personages  of  the  drama 
disappear  so  rapidly  towards  the  close,  that  by  the  time 
the  play  has  reached  its  conclusion,  it  has  to  stop 
because  there  is  hardly  any  one  left  to  carry  it  on. 
Women  as  well  as  men  take  part  in  this  war  of  exter- 
mination. Ways  of  death  are  various.  One  of  the 
characters  has  the  distinction  of  being  killed  by  a  pistol- 
shot;  but  there  are  three  suicides,  two  hangings,  and 
three  stabbings.  All  these  things  take  place  in  full 
view  of  the  audience,  while  the  hero,  who  gives  his 
name  to  the  piece,  contributes  an  additional  attraction 

181 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

to  the  general  horror  by  biting  off  and  spitting  out  his 
own  tongue. 

Still  the  destruction  of  life  in  this  play  is  so  far  from 
being  unexampled  that  it  has  sometimes  been  rivalled, 
and  in  one  instance  at  least  has  been  surpassed.  This 
is  in  the  tragedy  of  '  Soliman  and  Perseda.'  In  it  are 
fifteen  characters  besides  the  supernumeraries  who  are 
not  of  importance  enough  to  be  named.  When  the  end 
is  reached,  there  remains  of  this  number  of  fifteen  but 
one  solitary  survivor,  and  he  a  servant.  Furthermore, 
of  the  miscellaneous  crowd  four  are  despatched,  —  two 
by  the  sword  and  two  by  being  tumbled  from  the  top 
of  a  tower.  The  lack,  however,  of  contemporary  allu- 
sion shows  that  this  play  never  had  the  repute  of  '  The 
Spanish  Tragedy.'  The  favor  with  which  the  latter 
was  regarded  cannot  be  questioned.  No  one  will  pre- 
tend it  to  be  a  specimen  of  the  fine  arts.  But  a  large 
part  of  the  audience  that  heard  it  originally  with  ap- 
plause was  not  made  up  of  persons  of  refined  taste,  and 
had  not  as  yet  been  taught  by  great  exemplars  what  it 
was  that  a  refined  taste  could  accomplish.  It  therefore 
suited  their  humor.  They  did  not  object  to  it  because 
of  its  excessive  bloodshed ;  they  liked  it  the  better  on 
that  very  account.  Even  those  who  did  not  altogether 
approve  it  doubtless  felt  in  a  dim  way  that  it  possessed 
certain  positive  qualities  which  more  than  compensated 
for  its  literary  defects.  It  meant  business  from  the 
start.  The  characters  did  something;  and  the  Eliza- 
bethan play-goer,  especially  of  the  earliest  period, 
was  very  much  like  some  novel-readers  of  our  time, 
who  are  not  contented  unless  they  have  an  exciting 

182 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

situation  in  the  first  chapter.  At  any  rate,  they  fully 
appreciated  the  fact  that  the  first  duty  of  a  play  that 
is  to  be  acted  is  to  have  action.  Accordingly,  a  few 
murders  more  or  less  were  not  worth  taking  into  con- 
sideration. Whatever  extravagance  there  may  have 
been  at  times  in  its  manifestation,  it  was  in  the  eyes 
of  the  most  cultivated  a  sound  and  healthy  instinct 
which  demanded  that  something  should  take  place  in 
stage  representation  besides  the  glittering  generalities  of 
rhetorical  speeches  under  the  guise  of  conversation. 

It  was  productions  of  the  kind  just  mentioned  that 
would  present  themselves  to  the  young  and  aspiring 
dramatist  as 'stamped  with  the  seal  of  popular  approba- 
tion. There  would  be  nothing  strange,  therefore,  in 
the  fact  that  at  the  outset  of  his  career  Shakespeare 
should  have  been  influenced  by  the  practices  of  his 
predecessors,  and  would  be  disposed  to  give  his  audi- 
ence the  precise  sort  of  food  which  he  knew  from  both 
observation  and  experience  would  please  its  palate. 
Nor  would  it  be  remarkable  if  traces  of  this  truculent 
style  of  representation  should  cling  to  him  through  the 
whole  of  his  career.  That  such  was,  to  some  extent, 
the  case  there  can  be  no  question.  He  followed  the 
custom  of  his  time  in  this  as  in  other  matters,  though 
he  usually  followed  it  a  great  way  off.  In  truth,  here 
as  elsewhere,  his  genius  generally  enabled  him  to  seize 
what  was  good  in  the  methods  which  were  in  vogue, 
and  to  reject  what  was  bad.  That  he  was  in  full  sym- 
pathy with  the  principles  of  the  romantic  school  in  this 
very  particular  is  evident  from  his  procedure.  The 
destruction  of  life  in  full  view  of  the  spectators  takes 

183 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

place  on  a  grand  scale  in  some  of  his  finest  tragedies. 
At  the  close  of  '  Hamlet,'  for  instance,  four  of  the 
principal  characters  of  the  play  perish  in  swift  succes- 
sion in  sight  of  the  audience,  and  a  fifth  consents  to 
live  only  at  the  dying  request  of  the  hero  of  the  piece. 
Such  incidents  as  these  shocked  beyond  expression  the 
French  critics  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  their 
followers.  It  was  one  of  the  things  that  led  Voltaire 
to  stigmatize  this  particular  play  as  a  coarse  and  bar- 
barous piece,  that  would  never  be  tolerated  by  the 
lowest  of  the  rabble  in  France  and  Italy;  and  to  ex- 
press surprise  that  Shakespeare's  example  should  still 
be  followed  by  a  people  which  possessed  so  pure  and 
perfect  a  work  of  art  as  the  'Cato'  of  Addison. 

It  is  the  extent  to  which  this  indiscriminate  blood- 
shed is  carried  on  in  '  Titus  Andronicus  '  —  the  other 
play  mentioned  by  Jonson  —  which  has  largely  occa- 
sioned the  controversy  about  the  genuineness  of  that 
piece.  If  it  be  adjudged  a  production  of  Shakespeare's, 
it  must  be  confessed  that  he  improved  upon  even  '  The 
Spanish  Tragedy '  in  the  gruesome  and  the  terrible. 
This  particular  play  is  found  in  the  folio  of  1623.  It 
forms  one  of  the  six  tragedies  specifically  mentioned  by 
Meres,  in  1598,  as  having  been  written  by  Shakespeare. 
Hardly  any  more  convincing  external  evidence  could  be 
given.  If  testimony  about  authorship  is  worth  any- 
thing at  all,  not  much  better  can  be  asked.  Yet  so 
different  is  '  Titus  Andronicus  '  in  style  and  treatment 
from  the  dramatist's  other  pieces,  that  many,  and  per- 
haps most,  critics  and  commentators  have  not  only  been 
unwilling  to  concede  that  it  is  a  production  of  his  early 

184 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

apprenticeship  as  a  dramatist,  but  that  it  is  even  a 
production  of  some  one  else  which  has  undergone  his 
revision  sufficiently  to  be  entitled  to  a  place  among  his 
works.'  Such  at  least  is  the  avowed  reason.  Largely 
different  is  the  real  one.  That  is  the  character  of  the 
play  itself.  An  atmosphere  of  cruelty,  lust,  adultery, 
and  murder  hangs  like  a  pall  over  the  whole  piece.  It 
is  so  repulsive  in  its  savagery,  so  unsavory  in  what  may 
fairly  be  termed  its  beastliness,  that  in  spite  of  the 
strong  external  evidence  in  its  favor,  it  is  too  much  for 
the  delicate  nerves  of  most  editors  to  admit  even  the 
possibility  of  its  genuineness. 

However  this  may  be,  the  play  has  an  interest  of  its 
own  as  an  illustration  of  what  the  early  English  stage 
could  do  in  the  accumulation  of  abhorrent  incidents. 
Even  could  he  be  proved  to  have  had  no  connection 
with  it,  the  piece  would  be  worthy  of  attention  as  a 
specimen  of  the  example  which  Shakespeare  had  fre- 
quently before  his  eyes.  The  characters  in  it,  whether 
designed  as  good  or  bad,  all  display  the  same  propen- 
sity to  crime.  Titus  Andronicus,  the  hero  and  patriot, 
kills  one  of  his  sons  for  venturing  to  remonstrate  with 
him  against  a  peculiarly  foolish  course  of  conduct  he 
has  determined  to  adopt.  He  stabs  his  daughter, 
Lavinia,  in  a  fit  of  tenderness  for  her  reputation.  Two 
brothers  are  only  prevented  from  slaying  each  other  by 
the  enticing  prospect  held  out  to  them  of  having  an 
equal  share  in  crimes  of  ravishment,  mutilation,  and 
murder.  The  play  indeed  not  only  surpasses  '  The 
Spanish  Tragedy '  in  the  coarseness  of  its  horrors,  but 
in  the  number  and  variety  of   deaths  that  are  shown 

185 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

upon  the  stage.  The  plot  of  '  Titus  Androuicus  '  is 
carried  on  by  fourteen  principal  characters.  There  are 
also  eight  minor  ones  that  take  part  in  the  action,  and 
in  most  cases  appear  in  but  a  single  scene.  Of  the 
fourteen  principal  characters  eleven  are  successively 
despatched.  The  minor  ones  are  somewhat  more  fortu- 
nate :  of  the  eight  five  escape  alive.  There  is  a  certain 
variety  in  the  manner  of  the  deaths  inflicted.  Seven 
are  stabbed,  two  have  their  throats  cut,  two  are  offi- 
cially beheaded,  one  is  hewn  in  pieces  for  a  sacrifice, 
and  one  hanged;  and  what  must  have  been  a  bitter  dis- 
appointment to  the  audience  of  that  day,  the  principal 
villain  of  all  does  not  meet  his  fate  before  their  eyes, 
but  is  reserved  to  be  set  breast  deep  in  earth  and  there 
starve  to  death.  The  only  satisfaction  to  the  reader  of 
this  ghastly  story  is  that  hardly  one  of  the  characters 
who  is  poetically  condemned  to  die  appears  fit  to  live. 

Terrible  as  this  account  may  seem  —  and  some  of  the 
most  repulsive  features  of  the  work  have  not  been  men- 
tioned —  there  is  no  question  that  it  was  and  remained 
for  a  considerable  period  a  popular  play.  It  was  a 
popular  play  for  the  same  reason  as  was  '  The  Spanish 
Tragedy.'  Harrowing  scenes  were  what  those  desired 
who  attended  the  theatre.  In  both  of  these  produc- 
tions they  got  for  the  least  expenditure  of  money  the 
amplest  supply  of  horror.  Whether  Shakespeare  wrote 
this  particular  piece  or  not,  it  can  hardly  be  denied 
that  to  a  certain  extent  he  was  influenced  by  the  taste 
which  begot  it  and  enjoyed  it.  There  are  one  or  two 
things  in  his  greatest  plays  which  it  does  not  require 
peculiar   delicacy  of   feeling   to  regard  with  a   slight 

186 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

sensation  of  distaste.  The  smothering  of  Desdemona 
by  Othello  in  sight  of  the  spectators  may  perhaps  be 
endured ;  but  it  is,  assuredly,  not  a  scene  which  minds 
ordinarily  constituted  can  look  upon  with  unalloyed 
pleasure.  But  it  is  difficult  to  find  any  defence  for 
the  representation  in  '  Lear  '  of  the  extrusion  of  Glou- 
cester's eyes.  It  is  horrible  even  to  read  of,  and 
naturally  far  more  horrible  to  see  enacted.  Similar 
atrocities,  it  is  fair  to  say,  had  been  exhibited  upon  the 
English  stage  before.  In  'Selimus,'  a  tragedy  now 
ascribed  to  Greene,  one  of  the  sultan's  advisers,  acting 
as  his  messenger,  has  not  only  his  eyes  put  out  in  full 
view  of  the  audience,  but  has  his  arms  cut  off  also; 
and  with  these  latter  carefully  deposited  in  his  bosom 
is  sent  back  to  his  master.  It  may  be  added  that  the  loss 
of  life  which  goes  on  in  this  last-mentioned  play  makes 
it  worthy  to  take  its  place  by  the  side  of  the  pieces 
already  described.  There  are  about  two  dozen  person- 
ages who  take  part  in  its  action.  Of  this  number  more 
than  half  —  embracing  nearly  all  the  important  char- 
acters —  suffer  violent  deaths.  Three  are  disposed  of 
by  poison;  but  the  favorite  method  is  strangulation, 
which  carries  off  six.  At  the  end  the  author  encour- 
aged his  hearers  by  the  assurance  that  if  the  first  part 
gave  them  pleasure  he  should  follow  it  with  a  second 
part,  which  would  recount  even  greater  murders. 

Representations  of  this  sort  are  not  only  inartistic, 
but  in  the  long  run  they  are  ineffective  even  with  the 
class  which  at  first  takes  delight  in  them.  They  are 
not  only  repellent  to  the  cultivated ;  they  cease  in  time 
to  stimulate  the  over- jaded  appetites  of  the  rude,  soon 

187 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

satiated  with  horror.  In  its  insistence  upon  the  rejec- 
tion of  revolting  details  of  this  character  the  French 
theatre  was  unquestionably  right.  Nor  is  there  any 
necessity  for  their  representation  in  order  to  produce 
the  desired  impression  upon  the  audience.  Even  deeds 
of  violence,  which  can  be  properly  acted  under  certain 
conditions,  can  in  the  hands  of  the  great  master  be 
often  made  to  stir  the  feelings  more  profoundly  by 
narration  than  could  possibly  be  done  by  exhibition. 
In  '  Macbeth  '  the  murder  of  Duncan  affects  the  hearer 
far  more  deeply  because  it  is  not  seen.  The  accessories 
impress  us  far  more  than  could  the  actual  sight.  The 
marvellous  art  of  the  dramatist  has  here  drawn  a  pic- 
ture which  thrills  the  soul,  but  never  once  offends  the 
susceptibilities.  We  feel  the  terrible  nature  of  the  deed 
that  has  been  perpetrated ;  we  are  in  the  fullest  sympathy 
of  comprehension  with  the  actors  in  the  work  of  dark- 
ness, which  for  them  will  murder  sleep  forever  after; 
but  never  once  does  there  pass  through  the  mind  a  sug- 
gestion of  that  disgust,  that  shrinking  horror  which  the 
mere  sight  of  blood  often  causes,  when  shed  by  men 
acting  under  the  ordinary  instincts  of  self-preservation. 
In  this  particular  the  art  of  '  Macbeth  '  is  far  higher  than 
that  exhibited  in  the  corresponding  passages  of  '  Lear  ' 
and  '  Othello,'  to  which  reference  has  just  been  made. 

If  the  English  stage  had  gone  to  one  extreme  in  the 
portra}ral  of  scenes  of  violence,  the  French  had  gone 
to  the  other  in  refraining  from  the  slightest  exhibition 
of  them,  with  the  one  exception  of  suicide.  In  this 
abstention  their  critics  took  great  pride.  In  their  e}7es 
the  shedding  of  blood,  whether  of  a  single  individual 

188 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

or  in  the  shape  of  wholesale  slaughter,  was  equally  un- 
pardonable. It  was  contrary  to  decorum,  to  theatrical 
good  manners.  Naturally  the  opposite  course  of  pro- 
ceeding met  with  their  severest  condemnation.  The 
censures  of  the  practice  by  some  of  their  authors  af- 
fected to  a  certain  extent  English  opinion.  This  is 
true  at  least  of  the  criticism  of  those  of  them  who  were 
translated.  One  of  these  was  the  exile,  St.  Evremond, 
who  spent  in  London  most  of  the  last  forty  years  of 
his  long  life.  Essays  of  his  on  the  drama  were  brought 
out  in  1687  in  an  English  version.  They  reflected  those 
critical  views  prevailing  in  his  native  land,  which  had 
become  accepted  in  a  small  circle  in  his  adopted  one. 
But  the  circle  was  an  aristocratic  one,  and  St.  Evre- 
mond is  not  to  be  blamed,  therefore,  for  regarding  it 
as  the  exponent  of  the  best  taste.  Like  most  French 
critics,  he  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  know  a  lan- 
guage in  order  to  pass  decisive  judgments  both  upon 
the  character  of  the  people  who  spoke  it  and  of  the 
literature  they  produced.  Though  living  in  England, 
he  had  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  learn  the  English 
tongue.  That  ignorance,  however,  did  not  prevent  him 
from  finding  in  their  drama  four  or  five  tragedies  which 
with  proper  omissions  could  be  regarded  as  excellent 
plays.  Outside  of  these  four  and  five  he  saw  nothing 
but  a  shapeless  and  indigested  mass,  a  crowd  of  con- 
fused adventures,  without  consideration  of  time  or 
place,  and  without  any  regard  to  decorum,  where  eyes 
that  rejoice  in  cruel  sights  may  be  fed  with  murders 
and  with  bodies  weltering  in  blood.  He  was  struck  by 
the  delight  which  the  audience  took  in  plays  of  this 

189 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

character.  To  palliate  the  horror  of  their  scenes  by 
relating  instead  of  performing  cruel  acts  would  result, 
he  observed,  in  depriving  the  spectators  of  the  sight 
that  pleased  them  most. 

This  was  the  view  generally  taken  by  French  critics 
during  the  whole  of  the  century  that  followed.  Upon 
the  enormity  of  the  English  drama  in  the  matter  of 
violence  Voltaire,  in  particular,  insisted  vehemently. 
In  the  dedication  of  Zaire,  published  in  1732,  to  his 
friend  Falkener,  he  gave  a  good  deal  of  advice  to  his 
friend's  countrymen  on  this  point.  It  was  substantially 
as  follows.  Your  stage,  he  wrote,  is  contaminated 
with  horrors,  with  gibbets,  with  blood-sheddings.  Re- 
fine the  uncouth  action  of  your  savage  Melpomenes, 
and  strive  for  the  praise  of  the  best  judges  of  all  times 
and  nations.  Addison  has  shown  you  the  way.  In 
spite  of  particular  defects,  he  is  the  poet  of  the  wise. 
Imitate  that  great  man,  therefore,  though  only  when 
he  is  right.  Voltaire  recognized  later  the  impossi- 
bility of  changing  the  national  taste.  In  his  opinion 
Shakespeare  had  corrupted  it;  and  against  the  over- 
powering influence  of  that  dramatist  it  was  vain  to 
struggle. 

For,  that  the  taste  for  scenes  of  this  sort  was  bad 
taste,  there  was  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  French  critics, 
and  of  those  in  England  who  re-echoed  their  opinions. 
St.  Evremond  tells  us  that  the  better-bred  objected  to 
these  bloody  spectacles.  But  he  adds,  ancient  custom 
and  national  preference  prevail  over  the  delicacy  of 
private  persons.  It  cannot,  however,  be  denied  that 
this   foreign  view  affected   in  some   measure   English 

190 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

opinion,  and,  during  the  eighteenth  century  particu- 
larly, English  practice.  Several  of  their  writers  con- 
demned the  extent  to  which  representations  of  these 
scenes  of  violence  and  bloodshed  were  carried,  while 
not  condemning  the  practice  itself.  The  dreadful 
butchery  which  took  place  upon  the  English  stage  was 
denounced  by  Addison  as  the  most  absurd  and  bar- 
barous of  the  methods  used  to  excite  pity  and  terror.1 
It  exposed  the  nation  to  the  contempt  and  ridicule  of 
its  neighbors.  Yet  even  his  somewhat  timid  nature 
could  not  approve  the  conduct  of  the  French  in  banish- 
ing death  from  representation  entirely.  Their  avoid- 
ance of  blood  had,  in  his  opinion,  led  them  into 
absurdities  as  great  as  those  which  accompanied  its 
indiscriminate  shedding.  There  were  others,  however, 
—  they  were  not  numerous,  but  they  existed,  —  who 
were  willing  to  go  much  farther  than  he  in  concession 
to  the  classicists.  A  body  of  men  could  be  found  in 
England  who  would  gladly  have  shorn  the  stage  of  the 
representation  of  all  acts  of  violence  whatever.  They 
professed  to  regard  them  as  lacking  in  art.  "  Murders," 
said  Roscommon,  "cannot  be  allowed  on  the  stage,  let 
'em  be  of  what  nature  soever.  None  but  bad  poets, 
who  had  not  genius  enough  to  move  by  the  narration, 
have  introduced  bloody  spectacles."2  Chesterfield,  in 
commenting  upon  the  faults  of  the  theatre  of  his  own 
country,  said  that  the  English  ought  to  give  up  "all 
their  massacres,  racks,  dead  bodies,  and  mangled  car- 
casses,   which    they   so    frequently   exhibit    upon    the 

1  Spectator,  No.  44,  April  20,  1711. 

2  Notes  on  Horace's  'Art  of  Poetry,'  line  185  (1080). 

191 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

stage."1  Arthur  Murphy,  the  dramatist,  admitted  that 
it  was  a  corruption  of  the  liberty  enjoyed  by  the  play- 
wright to  permit  blood  to  be  shed  before  the  audience.2 
In  1759  Mrs.  Lennox,  assisted  by  certain  writers,  — 
among  whom  was  Dr.  Johnson,  —  brought  out  a  trans- 
lation of  Brumoy's  Theatre  des  Grecs.  It  was  preceded 
by  a  preface  contributed  by  the  Earl  of  Orrery,  the  friend 
of  Pope  and  Swift.  In  it  he  gave  expression  to  what 
had  now  become  in  some  quarters  a  regular  conven- 
tional criticism.  "  Whatever  may  have  been  chosen 
for  the  subject  of  tragedy,"  he  wrote,  "the  English 
theatre  has  made  itself  too  long  remarkable  for  cover- 
ing the  stage  with  dead  bodies,  and  exhibiting  all  the 
horrors  of  murder  and  execution." 

But  these  views,  however  warmly  and  frequently  ex- 
pressed, were,  after  all,  confined  to  a  comparatively 
limited  number.  Nor  did  they  exert  much  influence 
over  the  opinion  of  the  general  public.  There  is  no 
question  that  the  vast  body  of  frequenters  of  the 
theatre  —  the  common  people  they  may  be  called,  if 
one  so  chooses,  though  there  were  among  them  many 
uncommon  people  —  could  not  endure  a  tame  recital  to 
the  ear  of  what  they  felt  should  be  pictured  to  the  eye. 
Addison  was  not  alone  in  thinking  the  French  theatre 
had  gone  too  far.  Even  Chesterfield,  who  denounced 
the  English  stage  for  its  barbarous  ferocity,  found  fault 
with  the  French  for  its  constant  substitution  of  dec- 
lamation for  action.  If  those  so  partial  by  nature 
to  restraint   upon  the  liberty  of   the   dramatist  could 

1  Letter  to  his  son,  Jan.  23,  1752. 

2  Gray's  Inn  Journal,  No.  20,  Feb.  9,  1754. 

192 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

express  themselves  in  this  way,  it  was  inevitable  that 
the  orreat  mass  of  cultivated  men  should  be  much  more 
outspoken.  Not  only  did  a  large  number  of  the  Eng- 
lish playwrights  refuse  to  adapt  their  action  to  conti- 
nental ideas  of  decorum,  but  the  English  criticism  of 
that  day,  ordinarily  subservient  to  the  French  in  ques- 
tions concerning  the  drama,  revolted  in  this  instance 
against  the  imposition  of  this  restriction.  Further- 
more, it  resented  the  attempt.  In  answer  to  the  attacks 
made  upon  its  own  theatre,  it  retorted,  with  a  good  deal 
of  justice,  that  the  declamatory  speeches  in  which  the 
French  delighted  would  make  an  English  audience 
yawn.  Even'  such  as  were  willing  to  accept  the  uni- 
ties as  the  final  deliverance  of  art  could  not  look  with 
approval  upon  plays  in  which  there  was  little  but  mono- 
logue, or  orations  in  the  form  of  dialogue.  Their 
resentment  was  pictured  by  Garrick  in  the  epilogue 
previously  quoted,  to  the  tragedy  of  '  Athelstan, '  pro- 
duced in  1756.  That  great  manager  as  well  as  great 
actor  had  his  eye  constantly  fixed  upon  what  his  audi- 
ences would  care  to  see  and  hear.  In  the  following 
lines  he  bore  witness  not  only  to  the  diversities  of 
opinion  then  prevailing,  but  clearly  indicated,  also, 
how  deep  was  becoming  the  indignation  of  his  country- 
men at  the  depreciation  to  which  Shakespeare  was  sub- 
jected in  this  matter  at  the  instance  of  the  idolaters  of 
the  French  sta^e :  — 

"  The  youths,  to  whom  France  gives  a  new  belief, 
Who  look  with  horror  on  a  rump  of  beef ; 
On  Shakespeare's  plays  with  shrugged-up  shoulders  stare. 
These  plays  ?     They  're  bloody  murders,  —  0  barbare. 
13  VJ3 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

And  yet  the  man  has  merit  —  Entre  nous, 
He  'd  been  damned  clever,  had  he  read  Bossu. 
'  Shakespeare  read  French ! '  roars  out  a  surly  cit, 
When  Shakespeare  wrote,  our  valor  matched  our  wit : 
Had  Britons  then  been  fops,  Queen  Bess  had  hanged  'em, 
Those  days  they  never  read  the  French,  —  they  banged  'em." 

So  deeply  ingrained,  indeed,  in  the  national  character 
was  the  taste  for  action  as  opposed  to  narration,  that  it 
is  noticeable  that  in  the  alterations  of  all  sorts  to  which 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare  were  subjected  to  meet  the 
requirements  of  an  assumed  higher  art,  it  was  rarely 
the  case  that  his  scenes  of  violence  were  struck  out  or 
even  modified.  All  other  kinds  of  changes  could  be 
made  and  were  made.  Other  agencies  demanded  by 
the  taste  of  the  age  or  of  the  writer  were  brought  into 
operation,  such  as  the  principle  of  poetic  justice,  the 
introduction  of  the  passion  of  love,  the  elevation  cf  the 
character  of  the  hero  or  heroine.  But  no  inclination 
was  manifested  to  dispense  with  acts  of  bloodshed  or 
with  scenes  of  horror.  If  such  were  discarded,  it  was 
for  some  other  reason  than  objection  to  their  nature. 
It  was  so  little  the  case  that  fault  was  found  with  repre- 
sentations of  this  sort  by  the  public  or  by  the  majority 
of  the  critics,  that  in  the  alterations  which  were  made 
the  number  of  cruel  deeds  was  more  often  increased 
than  diminished.  Tate  subjected  the  tragedy  of  '  Lear ' 
to  most  violent  and  indefensible  changes;  yet  in  his 
version  the  extrusion  of  Gloucester's  eyes  went  on  in 
sight  of  the  audience.  He  could  plead  that  this  was  a 
necessity  forced  upon  him ;  but  no  such  excuse  can  be 
offered  for  the  introduction  of  a  similar  scene  in  the 
adaptation  of  '  Cymbeline, '  which  Durfey  produced  in 

194 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

1682  under  the  title  of  '  The  Injured  Princess,  or  the 
Fatal  Wager.'  In  this  Cloten  is  represented  as  put- 
ting out  the  eyes  of  one  of  the  characters  in  full  view 
of  the  spectators. 

In  fact,  there  was  frequently  a  disposition  to  revert 
to  the  taste  of  the  pre-Shakespearean  period,  as  if  the 
age  needed  a  stronger  stimulus  for  enjoyment  than 
his  comparatively  bloodless  scenes  provided.  In  Colley 
Cibber's  version  of  '  Richard  III.'  a  portion  of  the  final 
act  of  the  last  part  of  '  Henry  VI.'  was  added.  This 
had  the  incidental  result  of  contributing  an  additional 
murder  to  a  play  amply  stocked  with  them  at  the  out- 
set. Tate  in-  his  alteration  of  '  Coriolanus  '  took  pains 
to  set  forth  a  feast  of  horrors.  Not  only  does  the  hero 
of  the  piece  meet  with  a  violent  death,  but  also  his  wife 
and  his  son.  He  kills  Aufklius,  by  whom  he  is  in  turn 
mortally  wounded;  while  a  new  character,  Nigridius, 
the  villain  of  the  play,  who  has  just  been  boasting  that 
he  has  broken  the  bones  of  young  Marcius,  is  himself 
slain  by  Volumnia,  who  has  been  made  raving  mad. 
As  a  result,  the  stage  at  the  end  is  piled  with  corpses. 
No  part  of  this  ridiculous  travesty  of  the  terrible  was 
retained  by  Dennis  in  the  alteration  which  he  prepared 
some  thirty  years  later  of  this  same  tragedy.  But  even 
for  him  there  were  apparently  not  deaths  enough.  His 
sense  of  poetical  justice,  as  we  shall  see  later,  over-rode 
the  requirements  of  history,  lack  of  conformity  to  which 
he  had  elsewhere  imputed  as  a  fault  to  Shakespeare. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  multiply  instances;  but  as  regards 
this  matter,  there  is  one  alteration  which  demands  spe- 
cial notice  as  an  example  of  the  taste  of  the  times.    The 

195 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

terrible  character  of  the  drama  of  '  Titus  Andronicus ' 
assuredly  stood  in  no  need  of  being  heightened.  It 
might  seem  impossible  to  improve  upon  it  in  the  accu- 
mulation of  horrors.  Yet  this  was  accomplished  by 
Edward  Ravenscroft  in  an  adaptation  brought  out  in 
1678,  and  published  in  1687.  To  the  emperor  and 
Tamora  he  served  up  a  banquet  surpassing  even  the 
Thyestean.  No  dish  is  brought  in  which  does  not  con- 
tain some  part  of  the  hearts  and  tongues  of  the  two 
sons  of  the  queen,  no  wine  is  drunk  which  is  not  mixed 
with  their  blood.  Tamora  also  stabs  the  infant  which 
she  has  borne  to  the  Moor.  The  latter  is  struck  with 
admiration  for  the  height  of  iniquity  to  which  his 
paramour  has  risen  above  him ;  all  he  can  do  is  to  ex- 
press a  desire  to  eat  the  slain  child.  The  audience  was 
further  gratified  by  having  this  most  detestable  of  char- 
acters put  on  the  rack,  tortured,  and  finally  burned  to 
death.  Ravenscroft  was  impressed  with  the  excellence 
of  his  improvements.  "Compare  the  old  play  with 
this,"  he  proudly  said  in  his  preface;  "you  '11  find  that 
none  in  all  that  author's  works  ever  received  greater 
alterations  or  additions,  the  language  not  only  refined, 
but  many  scenes  entirely  new,  besides  most  of  the 
principal  characters  heightened,  and  the  plot  much  in- 
creased." Horrors  like  these  are  disagreeable  even  to 
read  about;  to  see  them  enacted  with  satisfaction  re- 
quires a  stronger  stomach  than  that  possessed  by  the 
modern  man.  Yet  Ravenscroft  tells  us  that  his  version 
was  successful  on  the  stage. 

Such  a  play  marked  the  extreme  in  one  direction; 
it  is  fair  to  add  that  it   was  an  extreme  very  rarely 

196 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

reached.  Still  the  taste  for  productions  of  this  sort 
never  ceased  to  exist.  As  early  as  1667  Dryden  had 
commented  on  the  increasing  fondness  for  carnage  on 
the  stage.  In  the  epilogue  to  his  'Wild  Gallant,' 
revived  that  year,  he  told  his  audience  that  they  were 
growing  savages;  that  nothing  but  human  flesh  could 
please  their  palate ;  that  if  no  blood  was  drawn,  then 
the  play  was  naught.  The  extreme  in  the  other  direc- 
tion met  with  favor  from  some,  but  it  was  not  often 
that  it  pleased  generally.  About  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century  Colley  Cibber  brought  out  in  an 
epilogue  to  a  piece,  then  first  acted,  the  distinction 
between  the  feelings  of  French  and  English  audiences. 
Of  the  character  of  the  production  in  question,  which 
was  called  '  Eugenia,'  he  said,  — 

"  Ours  is  all  sentiment,  blank  verse,  and  virtue, 
Distress  —  but  yet  no  bloodshed  to  divert  ye. 
Such  plays  in  France  perhaps  may  cut  a  figure; 
But  to  our  critics  here  they  're  mere  soup-meagre  ; 
Though  there  they  never  stain  their  stage  with  blood, 
Yet  English  stomachs  love  substantial  food. 
Give  us  the  lightning's  blaze,  the  thunder's  roll! 
The  pointed  dagger,  and  the  poisoning  bowl ! 
Let  drums'  and  trumpets'  clangor  swell  the  scene, 
Till  the  gor'd  battle  bleed  in  every  vein." 

The  preference  of  English  audiences  for  scenes  of  vio- 
lence to  the  exhibition  of  delicate  sentiment,  as  it  was 
called,  was  a  source  of  perpetual  grief  to  the  English 
admirers  of  the  French  stage.  Works  modelled  after 
those  which  on  that  had  found  favor,  with  their  careful 
abstention  from  the  flow  of  blood  and  their  unlimited 
indulgence  in  the  flow  of  words,  either  did  not  succeed 

ID  7 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

at  all,  or  their  success  was  usually  restricted  to  a  single 
season.  The  reason  of  this  was  clear  to  the  advocates 
of  pure  dramatic  art.  Such  productions  were  too 
chaste,  too  elegant  to  suit  the  coarse  intellectual  appe- 
tite of  the  crowd  which  frequented  the  English  theatre. 
It  was  primarily  the  fault  of  the  race  that  it  could  not 
appreciate  their  quiet  refined  beauty.  From  the  very 
beginning  it  had  been  in  love  with  tumult  and  noise 
and  slaughter.  But  for  the  continuous  and  continued 
existence  of  this  taste  Shakespeare  was  held  respon- 
sible. A  multitude  of  witnesses  might  be  summoned 
to  prove  the  existence  of  both  these  beliefs.  Here  we 
content  ourselves  with  two  verdicts  pronounced  from 
different  quarters  upon  two  pieces  produced  at  about 
the  same  time.  These  will  give  a  correct  conception  of 
the  state  of  mind  that  was  then  widely  prevalent  with 
a  certain  class  of  men. 

The  first  of  these  pieces  is  the  play  of  '  Eugenia, ' 
which  has  just  been  mentioned.  It  was  the  work  of 
the  Rev.  Philip  Francis,  better  known  as  a  translator 
of  Horace,  best  known  as  the  father  of  the  man  in 
whose  behalf  the  most  persistent  claim  has  been  put 
forth  for  the  authorship  of  the  letters  of  Junius.  It 
was  an  imitation  of  the  Cenie  of  Madame  de  Grafigny, 
and  was  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane  in  February,  1752. 
In  successive  letters  to  his  son  Chesterfield  gave  an 
account  of  its  fortunes.  He  reported  its  success  on  the 
first  two  nights  with  pleasure  and  also  with  surprise. 
He  had  no  expectation  that  it  would  do  so  well,  con- 
sidering how  long  British  audiences  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  murder,  rack,  and   poison  in  every  tragedy. 

198 


VIOLENCE   AND  BLOODSHED 

"But,"  he  added,  "it  affected  the  heart  so  much  that 
it  triumphed  over  habit  and  prejudice.  All  the  women 
cried,  and  all  the  men  were  moved."  But  this  agree- 
able prospect  of  the  triumph  of  delicacy  and  refinement 
did  not  continue.  A  few  days  later  he  wrote  that  the 
play  had  failed,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  pleased  most 
people  of  good  taste.  "The  boxes,"  he  said,  "were 
crowded  till  the  sixth  night,  when  the  pit  and  gallery 
were  totally  deserted,  and  it  was  dropped.  Distress 
without  death  was  not  sufficient  to  affect  a  true  British 
audience."1  The  modern  reader  will  find  this  piece 
a  representative  of  a  numerous  class  of  eighteenth- 
century  plays,  in  which  English  dulness  has  been 
added  to  French  regularity.  It  is  a  tragi-comedy, 
though  styled  by  its  author  a  tragedy.  The  plot  is 
a  love-story,  without  reality,  without  probability,  and 
without  interest.  Even  its  villain  gains  not  the  slight- 
est share  of  respect,  because  he  imitates  the  others  in 
persistently  acting  like  a  fool.  It  is  a  tribute  to  Gar- 
rick's  phenomenal  power  of  representation  that  the 
piece  was  played  for  more  than  a  single  night.  Yet 
there  is  no  doubt  that  this  wretched  stuff  pleased  a 
certain  class  of  both  hearers  and  readers  who  affected 
to  admire  its  peculiar  delicacy  of  sentiment.  To  her 
sister  Mrs.  Delany  wrote  that  it  was  "much  the  most 
pleasing  (I  won't  presume  to  say  best,  not  being  a  suffi- 
cient judge)  of  any  modern  play  that  has  come  out  these 
twenty  years."  2 

The   other   one   of   these  two   pieces  was  a  tragedy 

1  Letters  of  Feb.  20  and  March  2,  17-32. 

2  Delany  Correspondence,  vol.  iii.  p.  85. 

199 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

styled  '  Boaclicia. '  It  was  written  by  Richard  Glover, 
echoes  of  whose  once  much-lauded  epic  of  '  Leonidas ' 
occasionally  fall  upon  modern  ears;  it  was  brought 
but  at  Drury  Lane  in  December,  1753.  As  regards 
bloodshed,  it  had  followed  the  most  approved  French 
methods.  Battles  are  fought,  but  no  oue  sees  them. 
Several  of  the  characters  are  reported  as  losing  their 
lives,  but  all  of  them  refrain  from  shocking  the  audi- 
ence by  any  actual  exhibition  of  death-agony.  One  of 
them,  indeed  —  the  wife  of  the  Briton  leader  —  perishes 
in  their  sight;  but  she  conforms  to  the  proprieties  by 
taking  a  potion  which  lulls  her  to  death  as  gently  as  if 
it  were  a  delightful  sleep.  The  play  is  further  written 
with  all  the  pomp  of  eighteenth-century  poetical  dic- 
tion. Genuine  passion  expresses  itself  simply  and 
directly;  but  nothing  of  that  sort  is  found  here.  No 
stress  of  approaching  danger  can  restrain  the  utterance 
of  protracted  similes;  no  excitement  of  feeling  can 
induce  the  speaker  to  use  ordinary  words.  A  Roman 
indignantly  reproaching  his  comrade  for  effeminacy 
bids  him  seek  his  Campanian  garden,  and  there  nurse, 
not  flowers,  but  "the  gaudy-vested  progeny  of  Flora." 
This  play,  in  which  Garrick  took  a  leading  part,  met 
with  a  fair  degree  of  favor.  It  was  acted  eight  times 
continuously,  and  twice  more  before  the  season  closed. 
After  that  it  was  never  heard  of  again.  But  the  success 
which  it  had  at  the  time  was  felt  by  the  friends  of  art 
not  to  be  commensurate  with  the  elegant  language  em- 
ployed. "I  cannot  but  remark,"  said  Murphy,  "that 
the  applause  it  met  with  was  scarcely  warm  enough  for 
such    fine   writing."     He   then   went   on   to   give    the 

200 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

reason  of  this  coolness.  It  was,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  the  now  conventional  one.  Shakespeare  had 
made  the  English  all  so  fond  of  savage  liberty  that  if 
plays  were  written  in  accordance  with  the  rules  and 
simplicity  of  the  Stagirite,  the  scenes  would  not  be 
thought  busy  enough.  Still  he  was  confident  that  if 
the  judicious  Voltaire  were  to  examine  this  tragedy, 
he  would  confess  that  it  was  conformable  to  his  own 
delicacy  and  good  sense,  and  deserved  a  place  among 
the  best  of  modern  productions.1 

This  piece,  in  its  turn,  was  a  representative  of  numer- 
ous eighteenth-century  tragedies.  Its  heroine,  so  far 
from  being  air  impressive  character,  does  nothing  but 
scold.  She  is  really  little  more  than  a  virago  of  a  low 
type.  Declamatory  rant,  such  as  is  found  in  it  in  pro- 
fusion, was  not  likely  to  wean  away  an  English  audi- 
ence from  the  love  of  plays  in  which  there  was  plenty 
of  action,  and  frequently  of  action  involving  the  loss  of 
life  by  various  methods  and  on  a  grand  scale.  In  con- 
sequence, at  least  partly  in  consequence,  of  their  fond- 
ness for  spectacles  of  this  kind  the  English  came  to  be 
considered  on  the  continent  as  a  peculiarly  savage  and 
sanguinary  people.  They  were  supposed  to  delight  in 
brutal  acts  and  bloody  shows.  Their  reputation  for 
this  was  perhaps  established  before  their  theatrical 
exhibitions  confirmed  and  extended  it.  The  French 
critic,  Rapin,  for  instance,  who  made  no  pretence  to 
know  anything  about  English  literature,  assumed  as 
an  indisputable  fact  the  ferocity  of  the  English  people. 
For  that  reason,  as  well  as  on  account  of  the  energy  of 

1  Gray's  Inn  Journal,  Xo.  11,  Dec.  8,  1753. 
201 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

their  language,  he  believed  the  race  to  be  possessed  of  a 
genius  for  tragedy.  These  islanders,  he  tells  us,  are 
separated  from  the  rest  of  men.  By  the  nature  of  their 
temperament  they  love  blood  in  their  sports,  they  de- 
lio-ht  in  cruelty.  Imputations  of  this  sort  led  Rapin's 
translator,  the  amiable  Rymer,  to  put  in  a  mild  protest 
against  such  an  estimate  being  taken  of  "the  best- 
natured  nation  under  the  sun."  He  could  only  ascribe 
so  gross  a  misconception  to  the  character  of  their  trag- 
edies. There  are  probably  more  murders  done  on  our 
stage,  he  said,  than  upon  all  the  other  stages  of  Europe. 
Travellers,  therefore,  who  got  their  conception  of  the 
English  character  from  the  English  theatre  might  fairly 
conclude  that  the  English  were  the  cruellest-minded 
people  in  Christendom.1 

This  belief  continued  to  prevail  on  the  continent  for 
no  short  time.  Before  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury reference  is  made  to  its  existence  by  several  writers. 
At  a  later  period  Addison,  in  his  protest  against  the 
undue  exhibition  of  scenes  of  violence  upon  the  stage, 
remarked  that  in  consequence  of  the  frequency  of  their 
portrayal,  foreign  critics  had  taken  occasion  to  describe 
the  English  as  a  people  that  delight  in  blood.2  This 
view,  however  widely  accepted,  could  not  long  endure, 
as  soon  as  intercourse  between  nations  became  closer. 
When  the  islanders  began  to  be  seen  frequently  upon 
the  continent,  the  futility  of  the  opinion  was  speedily 
made    manifest.     It  was   recognized   that  the   English 

1  Preface  to  Rymer's  translation  of  Rapin's  Reflexions  surlaPoe'tique 
d'Aristbte  (1074). 

2  Spectator,  No.  44,  April  20,  1711. 

202 


J 


VIOLENCE   AND  BLOODSHED 

were  no  fonder  of  blood  than  their  neighbors.  Hence 
it  became  necessary  to  devise  some  other  reason  to 
account  for  the  fondness  they  displayed  for  spectacles 
full  of  terrible  scenes.  What  was  it  in  their  nature 
that  led  them  to  see  with  pleasure  such  exhibitions? 
It  was  a  perverted  taste,  to  be  sure,  but  how  did  the 
taste  come  to  be  perverted?  St.  Evremond  had  long 
before  been  ready  with  his  answer.  "  To  die  is  so  small 
a  matter  to  the  English,"  he  wrote,  "that  there  is  need 
of  images  more  ghastly  than  death  itself  to  affect 
them."  A  somewhat  different  theory  was  put  forth 
later  by  the  actor  and  author  Riccoboni,  who  in  1738 
published  a  work  containing  reflections  upon  the  differ- 
ent theatres  of  Europe.  From  him  it  was  adopted  by 
LaPlace,  who  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury introduced  to  the  knowledge  of  his  countrymen 
some  of  the  chief  works  of  the  English  stage.  The  first 
of  his  eight  volumes  began  with  a  discourse  upon  the 
characteristics  of  the  drama  he  was  translating.  In  it 
we  find  the  English  fondness  for  the  terrible  and  the 
horrible  philosophically  explained. 

It  was  all  owing  to  temperament.  The  English,  we 
are  told,  are  by  nature  contemplative,  disposed  to 
revery,  liable  to  be  absorbed  in  profound  thought.  It 
is  for  that  reason  that  their  writers  have  treated  the 
most  elevated  subjects  with  profundity  and  success. 
Consequently,  their  dramatic  authors  are  compelled  to 
resort  to  the  most  violent  devices  in  order  to  break  up 
tin's  constitutional  habit.  Unless  the  matter  which  the 
theatre  brings  before  them  be  presented  with  striking 
and  terrible  accompaniments,  their  minds  will  not  be 

203 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

stirred  nor  their  attention  fixed.  Thoughtful  persons, 
furthermore,  are  by  nature  melancholy,  and  are  little 
disposed  to  give  themselves  up  to  the  illusions  of  the 
theatre.  Their  constant  study  of  the  true  renders  their 
hearts  unwilling  to  accept  that  which  merely  resembles 
the  true.  They  want  to  see  things  as  they  are,  and  not 
as  they  are  reported.  They  are  averse  to  being  bored 
by  a  recital  of  what  they  feel  they  have  a  right  to  wit- 
ness at  first  hand.  Hence  the  frequent  changes  of 
scene,  the  diverse  spectacles  represented.  It  was  in 
this  genial  way  that  friendly  criticism  explained  what 
hostile  criticism  denounced  as  nothing  but  the  outcome 
of  a  rude  and  barbarous  taste. 

It  can  be  conceded  that  up  to  a  certain  point  the 
objection  to  the  introduction  of  scenes  of  violence  has  a 
foundation  in  both  nature  and  reason.  The  sense  of 
sight  is  no  more  to  be  unnecessarily  offended  than  the 
sense  of  hearing  or  the  sense  of  smell.  Nothing  should 
be  seen  on  the  stage  which  will  arouse  disagreeable 
sensations,  nothing  heard  from  it  which  will  call  up 
revolting  or  disgusting  images.  The  French  critics 
carried  their  objections  to  any  representations  of  this 
sort  very  far.  They  did  not  spare  the  ancients  for 
failing  to  conform  to  French  ideas  of  propriety.  They 
took  exception  to  the  way  in  which  Philoctetes  speaks 
of  the  plasters  and  rags  which  he  applied  to  his  sores ; 
and  equally  so  to  the  description  which  Tiresias  gives 
in  the  '  Antigone  '  of  the  filth  of  the  ill-omened  birds 
which  had  fed  on  the  carcass  of  Polynices.  There  is 
always .  risk  in  criticism  of  this  sort,  directed  against 
details  in  works  known  to  us  only  through  the  medium 

204 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

of  translation,  whether  made  by  ourselves  or  others. 
The  words  of  one  language  frequently  arouse  quite 
different  sensations  in  the  mind  from  those  produced 
by  the  words  of  another,  which  strictly  correspond  in 
meaning.  The  associations  that  gather  about  them  in 
two  tongues  are  often  essentially  unlike.  Only  in  the 
matter  of  our  own  speech  can  we  feel  justified  in 
expressing  positive  opinion.  Nothing,  for  illustration, 
can  be  more  offensive  than  Fletcher's  representation  in 
'  The  Sea-Voyage  '  of  the  suffering  that  goes  on  among 
those  who  are  so  reduced  by  the  lack  of  food  that  they 
contemplate  killing  one  of  their  own  number  to  save 
themselves  from  starvation.1  Of  all  times,  this  would 
seem  the  last  for  the  display  of  wit;  yet  it  is  the  very 
time  he  selects.  Everything  which  is  said  is,  in  con- 
sequence, wholly  out  of  place.  Nor  is  that  the  worst. 
We  are  not  only  struck  by  the  inappropriateness  of  the 
conversation  which  goes  on,  we  are  also  disgusted  by 
the  nauseousness  of  its  details. 

In  the  matter  of  tragi-comedy  we  have  seen  that  it 
was  Shakespeare's  practice  that  had  finally  justified  the 
romantic  drama.  Just  so  did  his  example  justify  the 
artistic  liberty  of  the  playwright  to  deal  with  represen- 
tation of  scenes  of  violence,  subject  not  to  conventional 
law,  but  to  the  capability  he  possessed  of  producing 
effects  at  once  powerful  and  pleasing.  That  in  this 
particular  he  himself  occasionally  went  to  an  extreme, 
may  be  conceded.  Still  it  is  very  rarely  the  case  that 
he  pushed  the  privilege  of  the  stage  too  far,  or  put  the 
feelings  of  the  audience  to  any  undue  test.     On  that 

1  Act  iii.  scene  1. 
205 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

delicate  border  line  which  separates  the  more  from  the 
less,  he  in  general  trod  not  only  unhesitatingly  but 
safely.  It  was  his  conduct  in  the  revolt  that  went  on 
from  this  rule  of  the  classicists,  as  well  as  in  the  devia- 
tions previously  considered,  which  secured  for  the 
romantic  drama,  even  in  foreign  lands,  first  toleration 
and  then  approval.  For  its  adherents  he  vindicated 
their  full  right  to  deal  in  their  own  way  with  the  mate- 
rials upon  which  they  labored.  Had  it  not  been  for 
him,  there  was  certainly  danger,  at  one  time,  that  the 
English  race,  in  spite  of  its  natural  distaste  for  produc- 
tions in  which  declamation  and  narrative  usurp  the  place 
of  action,  might  have  taken  up  its  home  for  a  while 
within  that  narrow  circle  of  ideas  which  looked  upon 
such  pieces  as  the  only  ones  conforming  to  true  art. 
Efforts  were  put  forth  at  various  periods  to  banish  from 
the  stage  painful  and  cruel  scenes.  Examples  of  this 
disposition  can  be  found  in  the  very  time  in  which 
Shakespeare  flourished.  In  Daniel's  never-acted  play 
of  '  Cleopatra  '  the  death  of  the  heroine  was  not  to  be 
witnessed;  instead  a  messenger  announces  the  circum- 
stances attending  it  in  a  speech  that  takes  up  more 
than  two  hundred  and  fifty  lines.  It  requires  no  great 
stretch  of  imagination  to  surmise  the  sort  of  reception 
which  a  longr-winded  oration  of  this  sort  would  have 
had  in  the  stormy  English  theatre  of  the  Elizabethan 
period.  The  actor  who  persisted  in  repeating  it  would 
have  run  the  risk  of  meeting  at  the  hands  of  an  indig- 
nant audience  the  fate  he  was  trying  to  describe ;  and 
few  would  then  have  been  found  to  deny  that  he  deserved 
the  death  he  had  been  made  to  suffer. 

206 


VIOLENCE  AND  BLOODSHED 

Attempts  of  this  same  general  nature  met  with  more 
favor  in  the  eighteenth  century.  It  seemed  for  a  time, 
indeed,  that  the  effort  to  discard  from  stage  representa- 
tion scenes  of  violence  with  the  circumstances  attending 
them,  might  gain  a  temporary  triumph:  anything  more 
than  temporary  it  never  could  have  been.  The  im- 
propriety of  such  representations  was  preached  from  a 
hundred  critical  pulpits.  Supported,  too,  as  this  view 
was  by  many  who  were  regarded  as  authoritative  leaders 
of  public  opinion,  it  could  not  fail  to  make  then  a  certain 
number  of  converts.  Writers  for  the  stage  were  disposed 
to  comply  with  the  requirement.  The  politer  part  of 
the  audiences  -=-  the  occupants  of  the  boxes  —  frequently 
felt  it  their  duty  to  admire  works  in  which  restraint  of 
this  sort,  as  well  as  other  kinds  of  poetical  decorum,  had 
been  faithfully  observed.  In  their  secret  hearts  they 
found  such  plays  depressingly  dull ;  but  they  were  pre- 
pared to  sacrifice  their  genuine  feelings  on  the  altar  of 
art.  Their  state  of  mind  is  depicted  in  a  lively  after- 
piece of  Mrs.  Clive's,  first  brought  out  in  1750,  in 
which  a  female  author  gives  her  reasons  for  preparing  a 
burletta  for  the  stage.  "  My  motive  for  writing,"  she 
is  represented  as  saying,  "was  really  compassion:  the 
town  has  been  so  overwhelmed  with  tragedies  lately 
that  they  are  in  one  entire  fit  of  the  vapors.  They 
think  they  love  'em,  but  it  is  no  such  thing.  I  was 
there  one  night  this  season  at  a  tragedy,  and  there  was 
such  a  universal  yawn  in  the  house,  that  had  it  not 
been  for  a  great  quantity  of  drums  and  trumpets,  that 
most  judiciously  came  in  every  now  and  then  to  their 
relief,  the  whole  audience  would  have  fallen  asleep."1 
1  The  Eehearsal,  or  Rays  in  Petticoats,  p.  15. 
207 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

In  a  similar  strain  Bentley's  son,  the  friend  of  Wal- 
pole  and  Gray,  deplored  the  general  decadence  which 
had  overtaken  creative  work  in  the  age  which  felicitated 
itself  upon  its  lofty  critical  standards.  In  a  poetical 
epistle  to  Lord  Melcombe,  he  observed,  — 

"  With  Milton  epic  drew  its  latest  breath, 
Since  Shakespeare  tragedy  puts  us  to  death."  1 

It  requires  now  the  painful  reading  of  the  eighteenth- 
century  classical  drama  to  appreciate  the  exact  jus- 
tice of  these  references  to  its  character.  Fortunately 
that  portion  of  the  audience  which  filled  the  pit 
and  the  galleries  felt  themselves  under  no  obliga- 
tion to  pretend  to  like  what  they  found  unendurably 
tedious.  It  was  they  who  all  along  had  instinc- 
tively recognized  that  the  course  which  Shakespeare 
had  taken  was  the  only  one  which  ought  to  be  taken. 
It  can  therefore  be  said  justly  that  to  him  in  this  re- 
spect, as  in  others,  the  deliverance  of  the  drama  is  due. 
Furthermore,  he  not  only  wrought  it  solely,  he  wrought 
it  completely.  Criticism,  which  once  found  no  word  too 
severe  to  arraign  his  methods,  has  at  last  toiled  tardily 
after  him  to  acknowledge  them  as  being  in  accordance 
with  the  highest  art.  For  Shakespeare  himself  it  has 
therefore  been  a  personal  triumph  as  well  as  the  triumph 
of  a  cause. 

1  St,  James's  Magazine,  vol.  ii.  p.  5  (1762). 


208 


CHAPTER   VI 

MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

The  disregard  of  the  unities,  the  intermingling  of 
comic  and  tragic  scenes  in  the  same  production,  the 
representation  of  deeds  of  violence  by  action  instead 
of  narration,  —  these  are  the  three  essential  character- 
istics of  the  romantic  drama  as  opposed  to  the  classical. 
Other  differences  there  are ;  but  they  are  accidental  and 
changing:  these  are  distinctive  and  permanent.  But 
in  addition  to  them  sprang  up  a  body  of  conventions  of 
another  kind.  Some  of  them  were  accepted  only  in 
limited  circles,  and  served  little  other  purpose  than  to 
give  the  critic  who  looked  upon  them  as  infallible  an 
opportunity  to  chastise  the  author  who  failed  to  observe 
them.  Others  there  were  which  for  a  certain  period 
were  very  generally  accepted.  They  have  furthermore 
been  treated  occasionally  as  distinctions  between  the 
two  dramatic  schools.  Such,  however,  they  are  not  in 
reality.  To  a  slight  extent  they  became  so,  owing  to 
the  tendency  of  the  one  to  grant  to  the  writer  the 
fullest  liberty  of  action,  and  the  corresponding  ten- 
dency of  the  other  to  restrict  it  within  the  narrowest 
possible  limits.  But  they  pertain  rather  to  the  freedom 
of  the  stage  itself  than  to  the  methods  of  any  par- 
ticular school. 

u  209 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

Shakespeare  in  consequence  is  only  indirectly  con- 
cerned in  the  controversies  that  went  on  in  regard  to 
these  conventions.  Unlike  the  doctrine  of  the  unities, 
many,  and  perhaps  all  of  them,  were  not  fully  formu- 
lated till  after  his  time.  Unlike,  too,  the  mixture  of 
the  tragic  and  the  comic,  unlike  the  shedding  of  blood 
on  the  stage,  their  rejection  or  employment  does  not 
flenote  characteristic  differences  of  the  theatres  of  rival 
nations.  They  indicate  a  general  trend  of  belief  or 
action  during  particular  periods,  rather  than  any  estab- 
lished principles  of  dramatic  conduct.  But  as  these 
conventional  rules  had  been  uniformly  disregarded  by 
Shakespeare,  it  enabled  those  who  paid  no  heed  to 
them  to  use  him  as  an  authority  for  their  opinion  or 
practice.  Hence  in  any  account,  of  the  controversies 
which  went  on  in  regard  to  his  dramatic  art,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  pay  them  some  consideration.  They  fall  into 
two  classes.  One  concerns  the  form  in  which  the  lan- 
guage of  the  play  is  clothed,  the  other  the  treatment 
of  the  subject. 

In  regard  to  form  a  number  of  conventional  rules 
came  to  be  widely  adopted.  One  of  these  was  that 
different  kinds  of  writing  should  not  be  employed  in 
the  same  play.  The  mixture  of  prose  and  verse  was 
as  bad  as  regards  manner  as  was  the  mixture  of  the 
humorous  and  the  pathetic  as  regards  matter.  This 
was  a  canon  so  generally  accepted  and  so  regularly 
obeyed  that  it  needs  mention  rather  than  exemplifi- 
cation. It  was  doubtless  inevitable  that  it  should 
undergo  extension.  This,  at  any  rate,  took  place.  It 
became  the  accepted  creed  that  comedy  must  always 

210 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

be  in  prose,  tragedy  in  blank  verse.  During  the  eigh- 
teenth century  this  rule  was  so  firmly  established  that 
the  occasional  exceptions  which  occur  are  so  occasional 
that  they  serve  to  emphasize  the  strictness  with  which  it 
was  enforced.  Especially  was  this  true  of  the  introduc- 
tion into  comedy  either  of  blank  verse  or  of  ryme.  The 
latter  was  an  offence  to  which  no  quarter  was  shown. 
Chesterfield  founded  the  reason  of  the  rule  upon  the 
very  nature  of  things.  Comedy  should  represent  mere 
common  life  and  nothing  beyond.  Its  characters  ac- 
cordingly should  talk  upon  the  stage  just  as  they  would 
in  the  street  or  the  drawing-room.  Hence  ryme  was 
inadmissible  'in  it.  He  would  not  allow  it,  unless  it 
was  put  into  the  mouth  or  came  out  of  the  mouth  of 
a  mad  poet.1  Belief  in  realism,  it  will  be  seen,  was 
just  as  potent  in  the  eighteenth  century  as  it  has  ever 
been  since,  though  it  did  not  clothe  itself  with  that 
name. 

The  view  taken  by  Chesterfield  was  far  from  being 
exceptional.  It  may  justly  be  said  to  represent  not 
only  the  general  belief  but  the  general  practice.  Rarely 
was  there  any  attempt  to  run  counter  to  it.  In  1784 
Hayley  published  three  comedies  in  ryme.  This  author 
had  somehow  stumbled  upon  one  of  those  incompre- 
hensible reputations  which  it  is  the  fortune  of  a  few 
to  have  for  a  time,  and  the  despair  of  future  gener- 
ations to  explain  how  they  came  to  have  it.  One  of 
these  comedies,  entitled  '  The  Two  Connoisseurs,'  was 
brought  out  at  the  Haymarket  the  year  of  its  appear- 
ance in  print.     The  very  nature  of  the  attempt  aroused 

1  Letter  to  his  son,  Jan.  23,  1752. 
211 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

curiosity.  Colman  wrote  a  prologue  for  it,  to  be  re- 
cited by  a  performer  in  the  character  of  Bays.  In 
the  course  of  it  he  was  represented  as  saying  that 
though  he  had  written  much,  he  had 

"  Ne'er  tried  aught  so  low,  or  so  sublime, 
As  Tragedy  iu  Prose,  or  Comedy  iu  Kyme." 

Hayley  was  then  in  the  height  of  his  factitious  reputa- 
tion. The  novelty  of  the  performance  awakened  in- 
terest, and  caused  the  play  to  be  received  with  a  certain 
measure  of  tolerance.  But  the  success  was  not  great 
enough  to  justify  imitation. 

The  feeling  which  sought  to  confine  comedy  to  prose 
naturally  did  not  content  itself  with  the  rejection  of 
ryme.  It  frowned  equally  upon  blank  verse.  In  regard 
to  this  there  was  however  no  such  unanimity  of  opinion ; 
and  at  a  period  when  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  were  con- 
stantly becoming  more  familiar  to  the  whole  world  of 
readers,  an  exclusion  of  this  measure  could  not  always 
hold  its  ground  unchallenged.  In  truth,  what  almost 
might  be  called  an  organized  movement  in  its  favor 
broke  out  among  that  group  of  old  Westminster  fellow- 
students  whose  names  occur  so  frequently  in  the 
early  story  of  Cowper's  life,  Three  of  them,  George 
Colman,  Bonnell  Thornton,  and  Robert  Lloyd,  put  them- 
selves in  direct  opposition  to  the  prevailing  sentiment. 
To  the  edition  of  Massinger  which  was  published  in 
1761,  Colman  furnished  a  preface.  In  it  he  denounced 
the  use  of  ryme  in  comedy.  Furthermore,  though  he 
did  not  deny  the  propriety  of  prose  in  works  of  this 
sort,  he  advocated  in  place  of  it  the  adoption  of  blank 
verse  after  the  manner  of  the  authors  of  the  older  Eng- 

212 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

lish  drama.  His  argument  was  based  upon  the  ground 
that  this  measure,  while  representing  with  fidelity 
the  words  and  acts  of  every-day  life,  was  capable 
of  rising  easily  to  heights  of  expression  above  the 
range  of  ordinary  conversation.  It  therefore  gave 
the  writer  opportunity  to  exhibit  his  powers  as  a 
poet  as  well  as  a  dramatist.  He  announced  that 
in  accordance  with  this  view  he  was  purposing  to  bring 
out  a  version  of  Terence  in  familiar  blank  verse.  If 
he  failed,  he  was  confident  it  would  not  be  due  to  the 
unhappiness  of  the  plan  but  to  the  poorness  of  the 
execution.  Meanwhile  the  design  had  kindled  the  am- 
bition of  his' friend  Thornton.  In  1762  that  writer  pub- 
lished in  the  '  St.  James's  Magazine,'  edited  by  Lloyd, 
a  specimen  of  an  intended  translation  of  Plautus  upon 
the  same  lines.1  This  called  forth  a  whole  series  of 
articles  from  another  scholar,  who  went  farther  than 
either  Colman  or  Thornton  in  his  defiance  of  the  estab- 
lished opinion.  He  took  the  ground  that  not  only 
should  comedy  be  written  in  measure,  but  that  it  should 
never  be  written  in  prose.2 

There  were  not  many,  however,  who  entertained 
these  sentiments,  still  fewer  who  acted  upon  them. 
Examples  of  comedy,  not  written  in  prose,  whether 
original  or  translated,  are  far  from  being  numerous 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  Colman's  version  of  Ter- 
ence  was  published  in  1704.  It  met  with  the  general 
approval  of  the  classical  scholars  of  the  time.  But 
there   was   occasionally   heard   a   discordant   note.     It 

i  Vol.  i.  pp.  265-274  (Dec.  1762). 

2  St.  James's  Magazine,  vol.  i.  pp.  384-392,  etc. 

213 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

had  been  made  in  blank  verse.  It  was  felt  by  many 
that  Colman  had  chosen  an  inappropriate  vehicle  for 
conveying  the  meaning  of  his  original.  More  than 
a  dozen  years  after  —  in  1777 — a  translation  of  two 
comedies  of  this  same  Latin  author  was  put  forth  in  prose 
by  a  writer  who  signed  himself  simply  a  member  of 
the  university  of  Oxford.  In  his  preface  he  praised 
Colman's  version  in  many  particulars,  but  took  most 
decided  exception  to  the  "  unnatural  combination,"  as 
he  termed  it,  of  comedy  and  blank  verse.  His  further 
criticism  renders  noticeable  how  all-important  had  be- 
come by  this  time  the  influence  of  Shakespeare's  ex- 
ample, how  profound  was  the  deference  paid  to  his 
authority.  The  writer  in  his  contention  that  blank 
verse  was  adapted  only  to  tragedy  or  to  epic  poetry, 
felt  compelled  to  parry  the  force  of  the  argument  that 
could  be  drawn  from  the  practice  of  the  great  dramatist, 
or  rather  to  misrepresent  it.  He  maintained  that  '  The 
Merchant  of  Venice  '  and  '  Measure  for  Measure '  were 
really  tragedies.  Therefore  in  them  blank  verse  was 
allowable.  On  the  other  hand  '  Much  Ado  about  Noth- 
ing '  and  '  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor '  were  pure 
comedies.  Therefore  the}?-  were  almost  entirely  written 
in  prose.  A  complete  application  of  this  rule  would 
show  that  Shakespeare  wrote  hardly  anything  but  trage- 
dies ;  for  in  all  of  his  pieces  that  go  under  the  name 
of  comedies,  blank  verse  prevails  to  a  greater  or  less 
extent,  and  is  almost  certain  to  be  employed  whenever 
the  expression  assumes  a  serious  character. 

In  this  he  followed  the  practice  of  his  age.     Blank 
verse,  while  generally  employed  in  tragedy,  had  never 

214 


MIX  OR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

been  limited  to  it  by  the  Elizabethans.  With  them 
it  did  not  reach  its  position  without  a  struggle.  For  a 
Ion"-  time  various  sorts  of  measures  were  used  side  by 
side.  Quatrains,  seven-line  stanzas,  eight-line  stanzas, 
couplets  of  twelve  and  f ourteen  syllables  are  to  be  found 
along  with  the  regular  heroic  verse,  whether  rynied  or  un- 
rymed.  Some,  and  even  many  of  them,  appear  inter- 
mingled in  the  same  piece.  The  '  Promos  and  Cas- 
sandra '  of  Whetstone  is  written  in  rynied  couplets  of 
ten,  twelve,  and  fourteen  syllables,  with  occasional  use 
of  blank  verse.  '  Selimus,'  while  principally  in  blank 
verse,  has  no  small  number  of  seven-line  and  eight- 
line  stanzas. '  Both  the  '  Cleopatra '  and  the  '  Philotas  ' 
of  Daniel  are  written  mainly  in  quatrains.  Traces  of 
several  of  these  measures  can  be  found  in  the  earlier 
work  of  Shakespeare.  Ryme  appears  in  nearly  every 
one  of  his  plays ;  and  though  the  use  of  it  he  grad- 
ually laid  aside,  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  ever  dis- 
carded it  entirely.  The  same  thing  was  true  of  those 
who  were  in  the  strictest  sense  his  contemporaries. 
The  rejection  of  other  measures  and  the  adoption 
of  blank  verse  was  a  general  movement  in  which, 
during  the  Elizabethan  period,  all  writers  for  the 
stage  shared  to  some  extent.  To  employ  the  termi- 
nology of  science,  it  was  an  evolution  which  took  place 
and  not  a  catastrophe. 

There  is  sufficient  reason  for  the  emergence  to  su- 
premacy of  blank  verse  from  this  confusion  of  measures 
that  for  a  while  prevailed.  No  other  form  was  found 
so  effective.  Its  capacity  for  giving  voice,  with  no 
sensible  impairment  of  dignity,  to  the  simplest  state- 

215 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

ment  of  fact  or  to  the  easy  language  of  conversation, 
and  of  passing  at  once  from  either  of  these,  without  the 
slightest  perceptible  strain,  to  the  sublimest  heights  of 
thought  or  to  the  utterance  of  intensest  passion,  made 
it  an  instrument  of  expression  which  has  never  been 
surpassed  for  dramatic  purposes,  if  it  has  ever  been 
equalled.  When  its  capabilities  were  fully  revealed, 
as  they  were  by  Marlowe,  its  general  adoption  was 
inevitable.  It  was  accepted,  both  then  and  afterward, 
as  the  recognized  medium  for  the  expression  of  all 
earnest  speech.  Once  only  was  an  attempt  made  to 
displace  it  from  the  position  which  it  had  acquired. 
It  was  during  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  that  this  occurred. 
Then  a  determined  effort  was  put  forth  to  substitute 
for  it  ryme.  The  matter  became  a  subject  of  vehement 
controversy.  The  struggle  in  behalf  of  ryme  was 
stoutly  maintained  for  a  while ;  but  when  Dryden, 
its  great  champion,  capitulated,  and  wrote  '  All  for 
Love '  in  blank  verse,  its  cause  was  felt  to  be  lost. 
Though  it  did  not  die  out  immediately,  its  doom  had 
been  sealed.  Henceforward  there  were  few  to  say  a 
word  in  its  favor,  and  many  to  attack  it  as  a  gross 
impropriety. 

Unlike  its  original  appearance,  this  later  introduction 
of  ryme  had  been  due  to  French  influence.  It  was  that, 
too,  which  for  a  while  maintained  it.  Later  it  was  con- 
ceded, by  those  opposed  to  its  use  in  the  English  drama, 
that  there  was  justice  in  Voltaire's  contention  that  in 
French  ryme  must  be  employed.  To  that  language  was 
denied  what  he  at  first  was  willing  to  call  the  happy 
liberty  of  blank  verse.   It  was  a  tongue  which  would  not 

216 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

admit  of  inversions.  The  lines  could  not  be  made  to  run 
into  one  another.  A  mere  caesura  and  a  fixed  number  of 
feet  would  not  be  sufficient  to  distinguish  poetry  from 
prose.  Therefore  in  Voltaire's  opinion  ryme  was  essen- 
tial to  French  tragedy  and  would  be  an  ornament  to 
French  comedy.1  But  no  necessity  of  this  sort  existed 
in  English ;  hence  the  hostility  manifested  to  ryme  dur- 
ing the  eighteenth  century  was  carried  to  an  extreme. 
Not  even  would  Shakespeare's  practice  of  intermingling 
it  with  blank  verse  have  been  tolerated  in  the  work 
of  a  professed  imitator.  He  himself  was  pardoned,  be- 
cause, living  in  the  unrefined  age  he  did,  he  could  not  be 
expected  to  know  better.  But  no  privilege  of  this 
kind  could  be  conceded  to  the  writer  of  the  under- 
standing ages  which  had  followed.  The  union  of  prose 
and  verse  in  the  same  play  was  as  bad  as  anything 
could  be ;  but  the  iniquity  of  indulgence  in  such  a 
mixture  hardly  surpassed  that  of  intermingling  different 
kinds  of  verse.  Addison  declared  himself  to  be  very 
much  offended  when  he  saw  a  play  in  ryme.  This 
he  termed  a  solecism.  But  he  found  still  more  objec- 
tionable those  plays  which  had  some  parts  in  ryme  and 
some  in  blank  verse.  These  were  really  two  different 
languages.  He  was  willing  to  admit  that  the  speaker 
at  the  very  end  of  a  scene  might  be  permitted  to  take 
his  departure  with  two  or  three  couplets.  Beyond  that 
point  he  was  unwilling  to  go.2 

Blank   verse    became    therefore   sacred    to    tragedy. 
Critical  opinion  assumed  that  in  this  species  of   dra- 

1  Letter  to  Lord  Bolingbroke,  prefixed  to  Brutus. 

2  Spectator,  No.  40,  April  11,  1711. 

217 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

matic  composition  no  other  form  of  versification  was 
permissible.  If  the  employment  in  it  of  ryme  met 
with  disfavor,  we  can  accordingly  conceive  something 
of  the  state  of  feeling  that  would  be  aroused  by  the 
use  of  prose.  "  Tragedy,"  said  Chesterfield,  "  must 
be  something  bigger  than  life,  or  it  would  not  affect 
us."  In  it  the  violent  passions  must  not  only  speak, 
but  furthermore  they  must  speak  with  dignity.  Hence 
the  necessity  of  their  being  expressed  in  verse.1  Col- 
man  in  the  prologue  to  Hayley's  play,  besides  speaking 
of  comedies  in  ryme,'  had  also  mentioned  tragedies  in 
prose.  Few  experiments  of  this  latter  kind  were  ever 
attempted ;  yet  it  is  to  be  said  that  in  at  least  two 
instances,  when  so  written,  they  achieved  notable  suc- 
cess. The  experiments  of  this  nature  belonged,  however, 
to  the  tragic  drama  which  dealt  not  with  persons  of 
high  position,  but  with  characters  taken  from  a  com- 
paratively low  station  in  life.  It  was  too  venturesome 
for  even  the  most  reckless  of  playwrights  to  make  a 
king  or  hero  talk  the  humble  language  of  prose.  But 
with  the  personages  coming  from  the  middle  class  this 
liberty  could  be  taken  more  safely.  In  1731  Lillo  brought 
out  his  domestic  tragedy  of  '  George  Barnwell.'  It  was 
in  prose,  though,  it  must  be  admitted,  it  was  a  sort  of 
spurious  prose.  It  had  a  measured  movement ;  it  was 
full  of  inversions  ;  and  a  good  deal  of  it  could  have  been 
turned  with  little  difficulty  into  passable  blank  verse. 
The  success  it  achieved  was  so  great  that  it  continued 
to  be  acted  for  the  rest  of  the  century.  But  however 
popular  with  the  public,  it  offended  the  critical  frater- 

1  Letter  to  his  son,  Jan.  23,  1752. 
218 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

nity.  This  was  partly  due  to  its  violation  of  the  unities, 
but  mainly  to  the  form  in  which  it  had  been  put.  The 
experiment  Lillo  never  afterward  cared,  or  at  least 
never  chose,  to  repeat,  in  spite  of  the  success  which 
his  first  venture  had  met.  In  1740,  about  a  year  after 
his  death,  his  play  of  '  Elmerick  '  was  produced.  These 
words  of  its  prologue  bear  witness  to  the  fact  that  all 
other  qualities  of  his  most  popular  work  had  never 
entirely  appeased  critical  fury :  — 

"  He  knew  no  art,  no  rule  ;  but  warmly  thought 
From  passion's  force,  and  as  he  felt  he  wrote. 
His  Barnwell  once  no  critic's  test  could  bear, 
Yet  from  each  eye  still  draws  the  natural  tear." 

The  next  successful  piece  of  this  kind  was  '  The 
Gamester'  of  Edward  Moore.  It  was  brought  out  in 
1753,  and  met  with  the  greatest  public  favor.  Though 
written  in  prose,  there  could  be  no  question  as  to  its 
being  a  tragedy.  To  that  form  of  art  which  excluded 
the  comic  entirely  its  author  was  unswerving  in  his 
allegiance.  From  beerinning  to  end  there  is  little  but 
misery,  unrelieved  by  a  single  sally  of  wit,  not  even  by 
a  single  diverting  incident.  It  differed  from  Lillo's 
work  in  the  obedience  it  paid  to  the  unities,  with  the 
usual  absurdity  of  crowding  into  twenty-four  hours 
events  which  could  hardly  have  taken  place  in  twenty- 
four  days.  But  this  violation  of  the  truth  of  life  did 
not  disturb  the  critics.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  their 
minds.  It  was  the  way  in  which  it  was  written  which 
they  found  objectionable.  All  properly  constituted 
persons  of  taste,  it  was  asserted,  regarded  the  use  of 
prose   as   something   altogether  below   the   dignity   of 

219 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

tragedy.1  Successful  as  the  piece  had  been,  it  was  not 
enough  so  to  encourage  imitation.  This  employment 
of  prose  involved  therefore  an  additional  risk  which  no 
playwright  cared  to  run.  Thirty  years  passed  before 
any  one  ventured  again  upon  so  hazardous  an  under- 
taking. In  1783  Cumberland  brought  out  his  tragedy 
of  '  The  Mysterious  Husband.'  In  it  he  too  made  use 
of  the  forbidden  medium.  That  the  course  was  felt  to 
be  fraught  with  danger  is  plain  from  the  words  of  the 
prologue  :  — 

"  Sad  omen  for  our  poet  when  he  chose 
The  narrow  grovelling  path  of  humble  prose, 
A  path  indeed  which  Moore  and  Lillo  trod, 
And  reached  Parnassus  by  the  bridle  road." 

Against  the  deference  paid  to  these  conventional  rules 
Shakespeare's  practice  was  a  silent  but  perpetual  pro- 
test. He  had  employed  ryme  and  blank  verse  in  his 
comedies.  In  so  doing  he  had  aggravated  the  original 
offence  by  the  further  crime  of  mingling  the  two  in  the 
same  production.  Into  his  tragedies  he  had  introduced 
prose.  Sometimes  in  the  very  same  scene  specimens 
of  all  these  different  methods  of  expression  were  to 
be  found.  The  same  characters  occasionally  passed 
from  one  to  the  other  without  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion. In  truth,  there  was  not  a  dramatic  sin  of  which 
he  had  not  been  guilty.  As  his  plays  became  more 
read  and  studied  and  acted,  the  sense  of  the  enormity 
of  these  proceedings  gradually  waxed  fainter  with 
familiarity.     For  a  long  period,  it  is  true,  the  opinion 

1  For  example,  see  a  long  notice  of  the  play  in  the  '  Universal 
Magazine/  vol.  xii.  pp.  77-88  (1753). 

220 


MINOR   DRAMATIC  CONVENTIONS 

prevailed,  sometimes  even  with  his  admirers,  that 
the  mixture  of  these  various  modes  of  expression 
in  the  same  piece  was  merely  another  illustration  of 
his  wild  and  irregular  genius.  But  in  process  of 
time  it  dawned  upon  the  minds  of  men  that  these 
conventions  concerned  only  the  mechanism  of  the 
play ;  they  had  little  to  do  with  its  character  as  a  work 
of  art.  This  depended  upon  its  effectiveness  in  pro- 
ducing properly  the  result  at  which  the  writer  aimed. 
If  a  person  reaches  at  the  right  moment  the  place  he 
is  seeking,  it  makes  comparatively  little  difference 
whether  he  has  travelled  on  foot,  or  on  horseback,  or 
in  a  chariot-and-four,  or  if  he  has  adopted  in  turn 
each  one  of  these  modes  of  conveyance.  The  choice 
is  largely  a  matter  of  convenience.  Undoubtedly  cer- 
tain mediums  of  expression  are  in  themselves  better 
/  suited  to  one  kind  of  production  than  to  another;  but 
it  is  the  success  in  any  given  case  that  determines 
whether  the  particular  one  resorted  to  in  it  has  been 
the  best  or  not.  Each  can  be  so  used  as  to  cause 
offence;  but  that  consists  in  the  way  it  is  employed, 
not  in  the  fact  of  its  employment. 

Controversies  on  points  like  these  are  taken  up  with 
the  nature  of  the  vehicle.  There  were  others  which 
concerned  either  the  material  which  was  sought  to  be 
conveyed,  or  its  method  of  treatment.  About  these 
latter  a  number  of  conventional  rules  strove  to  find 
acceptance.  In  certain  instances  they  gained  it.  They 
were  frequently  put  forth  in  conformity  to  some  fanci- 
ful theory  which  might  or  might  not  have  the  least 
relation  to  nature  or  truth.      According  as  the  work 

221 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

of  the  dramatist  harmonized  or  failed  to  harmonize 
with  the  view  adopted,  it  was  adjudged  right  or 
wrong.  One  of  the  most  important  of  these,  the 
doctrine  of  poetical  justice,  belongs  strictly  to  the 
controversy  about  the  morality  of  the  Shakespearean 
drama.  At  this  place,  therefore,  it  will  merely  receive 
mention  and  not  treatment.  Furthermore,  the  varia- 
tion from  the  classical  precedent  which  goes  under 
the  name  of  domestic  tragedy  does  not  strictly  come 
into  any  discussion  of  Shakespeare  as  a  dramatic  artist. 
With  this  sort  of  production,  not  uncommon  in  his 
time  and  perhaps  even  more  common  later,  he  did 
not  concern  himself.  Though  he  brings  men  of  low 
position  into  these  pieces,  his  heroes  are  always  of 
exalted  station.  In  most  of  them  they  are  either 
royal  or  connected  with  royalty.  The  apparent  ex- 
ceptions are  only  apparent.  Both  Romeo  and  Juliet 
are  representatives  of  great  families  whose  strife  has 
deluged  the  streets  of  an  Italian  city  with  blood. 
Othello  is  a  renowned  militar}r  leader.  Timon,  against 
whom  most  exception  can  be  taken  on  this  ground, 
is  a  man  of  highest  social  position,  and  allied  in  a 
way  with  the  great  historical  personage  who  appears 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  play  as  the  conqueror  of 
Athens.  While  Shakespeare's  tragedies  do  not  there- 
fore always  conform  to  the  classical  practice  of  deal- 
ing with  the  fate  of  kings  and  the  fortune  of  states, 
they  do  concern  themselves  invariably  with  persons 
of  lofty  station.  In  general  this  is  also  true  even  of 
his  comedies.  'The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor'  and 
4  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew '  are  the  only  two  of  these 

222 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

in  which  persons  of  the  dignity  of  rulers  do  not  bear 
some  part. 

Yet  the  belief  in  the  necessity  of  confining  tragedy 
as  far  as  possible  to  royalty  exercised  some  influence  in 
the  alterations  which  were  made  in  Shakespeare's  plays. 
But  any  effect  wrought  by  it  was  slight  in  comparison 
with  the  extension  given  to  the  part  love  was  made  to 
fill.  From  the  beginning  this  passion  had  been  the 
staple  of  comedy.  There,  it  was  felt,  was  its  legitimate 
province.  But  love  with  the  Elizabethans  had  also 
invaded  tragedy ;  in  France  it  subsequently  made  a 
complete  conquest  of  it.  On  that  stage  no  piece 
could  succeed  which  did  not  contain  it  as  a  leading 
motive,  if  not 'the  leading  motive.  If  it  were  lacking, 
actors  refused  to  play  it,  audiences  refused  to  listen 
to  it.  From  France,  as  we  have  seen,  the  practice  was 
carried  to  England  at  the  era  of  the  Restoration,  and 
came  to  occupy  a  prominent  place  in  the  transformations 
which  Shakespeare's  dramas  were  made  to  undergo. 
However  much  men  might  dislike  the  idea  of  thrust- 
ing the  operation  of  this  passion  into  every  produc- 
tion, whether  suitable  to  it  or  not,  they  conformed  to 
the  prevailing  taste  of  the  age  in  so  doing.  It  was 
the  general  adoption  of  this  practice  by  the  French 
playwrights  which  led  to  love  in  tragedy  being  some- 
times considered  an  essential  distinction  between  ro- 
manticism and  classicism.  Such  it  never  really  was. 
It  could  not  be  a  distinction  between  the  purely  classi- 
cal drama  and  the  romantic  ;  for  the  ancient  tragedy 
did  not  deal  in  love  between  the  sexes  at  all.  It  could 
not  be  a  distinction  between  the  French  and  the  Eno-Hsh 

223 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

tragedy ;  for  both  dealt  in  it  more  or  less.  There  is 
just  this  slight  foundation  for  the  contention.  It  is 
to  a  certain  extent  a  distinction  between  the  stage  of 
Corneille  and  Racine  and  that  of  Shakespeare,  using 
Shakespeare  as  the  representative  of  his  period.  Even 
there  it  is  not  a  thorough-going  distinction.  It  is  so 
only  to  the  extent  that  in  the  latter  love  was  made 
the  subject  of  tragedy  occasionally ;  in  the  former  it 
was  made  so  habitually. 

So  little,  however,  was  the  position  given  to  the  sub- 
ject of  love  regarded  as  a  real  distinction  between  the 
classical  and  the  romantic  drama  that  the  practice  of 
introducing  it  on  all  occasions  met  with  as  much  dis- 
favor  from  many  adherents  of  the  former  as  it  did 
from  the  stoutest  upholders  of  the  latter.  True,  this 
disfavor  was  in  part  due  to  the  belief  in  certain  con- 
ventional rules  which  had  no  foundation  in  nature,  in 
reason,  or  in  common  sense.  With  the  full  operation 
of  these  rules  love  was  supposed  to  interfere.  Oppo- 
sition was  therefore  sometimes  manifested  to  any  intro- 
duction of  it  whatever.  In  the  eyes  of  Rene'  Rapin,  who 
in  1674  published  reflections  on  Aristotle's  'Poetics,' 
modern  tragedy  had  degenerated  on  this  very  account 
from  the  standard  set  by  the  ancients.  Tragedy,  he 
maintained,  must  always  be  invested  with  an  heroic 
air.  For  that  reason  love  is  unsuitable  to  it.  To  him 
it  seemed  that  there  could  be  nothing  more  senseless 
and  contemptible  than  for  a  man  to  spend  his  time 
whining  about  frivolous  kindnesses,  when  he  might  be 
making  himself  an  object  of  admiration  by  great  and 
noble   thoughts   and  sublime   expressions.     It  shows, 

224 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

nevertheless,  how  strong  was  the  sentiment  in  favor  of 
the  course  he  condemned  that  Rapin  recognized  and 
confessed  that  his  was  but  a  solitary  voice  which  was 
lifted  up  against  established  usage. 

But  if  the  practice  annoyed  Rapin  the  critic,  it  irri- 
tated Voltaire  the  dramatist  almost  beyond  endurance. 
Protests  against  it  abound  in  the  introductions  to  his 
tragedies.  Our  stage  is  filled  with  nothing  but  gal- 
lantry and  intrigue,  he  wrote  in  the  preface  to  his 
Rome  Sauvee.  Nobody  with  us  enters  into  conspira- 
cies, but  everybody  is  in  love.  He  reiterated  his  opinion 
in  the  dissertation  prefixed  to  his  Semiramis.  Love 
and  gallantry  have  almost  ruined  the  French  theatre, 
was  his  cry.  He  had  told  us  previously  how  great 
had  been  his  annoyance  and  indignation,  when  he  of- 
fered (Eclipe  to  the  stage  in  1718,  to  find  that  he  could 
not  £et  it  acted  because  it  contained  nothing:  of  that 
passion.  The  actresses  laughed  at  him  when  they  dis- 
covered there  were  no  scenes  of  tenderness  in  which 
they  could  display  their  powers.  So  he  tells  us  he 
was  compelled  to  spoil  his  play  by  putting  in  some 
love-passages  in  a  piece  in  which  they  had  no  business. 
Rapin's  feelings,  which  differed  only  in  degree  from 
those  of  Voltaire,  were  reflected  in  Rapin's  English 
translator,  Rymer.  This  writer  was  the  most  ardent 
upholder  of  both  the  theory  and  the  practice  of  the 
ancient  drama.  It  was  because  love  did  not  appear 
there  that  he  was  led  to  regard  it  as  unsuitable  to 
the  stage.  Dennis  did  not  altogether  agree  with  his 
fellow-critic  in  his  demand  for  the  complete  exclusion 
of  this  passion.  Yet  he  denounced  the  introduction 
15  225 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

of  love-scenes  in  Addison's  'Cato,'  partly,  to  be  sure, 
because  of  their  insipidity,  but  also  because  they  were 
utterly  foreign  to  the  actual  interests  of  the  play.1 
Critical  opinion  in  England  pretty  generally  condemned 
the  practice  ;  yet  it  had  but  little  influence  upon  usage. 
As  late  as  1753  Joseph  Warton  complained  that  love, 
by  totally  engrossing  the  theatre,  had  contributed  to  de- 
grade that  noble  school  into  an  academy  of  effeminacy.2 
The  introduction  of  love  into  tragedy  is  important 
to  us,  because  of  the  prominence  of  the  part  it  played 
in  the  alterations  of  Shakespeare.  But  it  cannot  fairly 
be  imputed  to  the  classicists,  though  it  had  established 
itself  completely  upon  their  stage.  It  was,  however,  by 
those  belonging  to  their  school  that  a  number  of  other 
doctrines  were  propounded  at  the  era  of  the  Restora- 
tion in  order  to  meet  fully  the  requirements  of  poetical 
art.  Some  of  these  can  hardly  be  considered  anything 
more  than  the  expression  of  personal  opinion;  others 
there  were  which  had  a  good  deal  of  vogue,  and  affected 
to  no  small  extent  the  practice  of  the  dramatists  of  the 
time.  They  were,  furthermore,  made  tests  to  try  the 
merits  of  Shakespeare.  The  reader  of  the  critical  lit- 
erature of  the  period  following  the  Restoration  gets 
tired  beyond  measure  at  the  constant  gabble  about  the 
poetic  art,  —  what  it  demands,  what  it  disallows.  He 
finds  wearisome  beyond  endurance  the  persistent  harp- 
ing upon  Aristotle's  assertion  that  the  design  of  tragedy 
is  to  inspire  pity  or  terror;  the  regular  examination 
of  eveiy  play  in  order  to  ascertain  whether  or   not   it 

1  Remarks  upon  Cato. 

2  Adventurer,  No.  113,  Dec.  4, 1753. 

226 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

has  been  successful  in  exciting  one  or  both  of  those 
emotions.  In  all  the  controversies  about  these  various 
points  the  historiographer,  Thomas  Rymer,  who  has 
already  been  mentioned,  bore  a  conspicuous  part.  lie 
was  largely  responsible  for  the  acceptance  of  some  of 
the  views  then  promulgated,  so  far  as  they  were  ac- 
cepted at  all.  Of  one  or  two  he  may  have  been  the 
originator.  For  these  reasons,  as  well  as  for  his  atti- 
tude toward  Shakespeare,  it  is  necessary  to  give  some 
account  of  him  as  a  man  and  a  critic. 

Fortunately  for  his  reputation  Rymer  is  now  known 
to  us  mainly  as  the  compiler  of  the  documents  which 
go  under  the  name  of  '  Fcedera.'  The  diligence  and 
zeal  he  displayed  in  collecting  this  mass  of  historical 
material  has  always  found  its  due  meed  of  praise.  But 
to  his  contemporaries  he  was  known  almost  wholly  as 
a  critic. ]  About  his  qualifications  for  exercising  the 
duties  of  this  calling,  as  well  as  for  the  success  which 
he  met  in  its  pursuit,  widely  conflicting  opinions  have 
been  entertained.  The  generally  received  modern  view 
has  been  expressed  by  Macaulay  with  his  usual  energy, 
or,  as  some  hold,  with  his  usual  over-emphasis.    Accord- 

1  A  most  singular  error  is  found  in  the  memoir  of  Rymer,  which 
was  prefixed  by  Sir  Thomas  Duffus  Hardy  to  the  Syllabus  of  the 
documents  contained  in  the  'Foedera.'  published  in  1809.  In  that  an 
extract,  under  the  title  of  'The  Garreteer  Poet,'  was  printed  as  a  speci- 
men of  the  bitter  feeling  entertained  and  exhibited  towards  Rymer  per- 
sonally. The  passage  in  question  is  an  extract  from  one  of  the  chap- 
ters in  a  novel  called  'The  History  of  Pompey  the  Little,'  written  by 
Francis  Coventry,  and  first  published  in  1751.  It  is  a  picture  of  the 
misery  and  squalor  in  which  poor  authors  lived  at  that  time.  The 
character  is  designated  as  "  Mr.  Rhymer,  the  poet  ;  "  but  it  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  Rymer,  the  critic,  who  had  been  dead  about  forty 
years. 

227 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

ing  to  him,  Rymer  was  the  worst  critic  that  ever  lived. 
Even  those  who  regard  him  most  contemptuously  might 
naturally  hesitate  to  accord  to  one  alone,  out  of  the 
multitude  of  aspirants,  the  right  to  the  occupancy  of 
this  particular  throne.  Still,  there  is  no  question  that 
he  possessed  qualities  which  afford  no  small  justification 
for  the  claim  Macaulay  set  up  in  his  behalf.  To  in- 
competency of  appreciation  he  joined  peculiar  wretched- 
ness of  expression.  To  make  use  of  one  of  his  own 
phrases,  "  for  tongue  and  wind  " 1  he  never  had  a  rival. 
His  methods  of  criticism  were  very  much  of  the  nature 
of  those  with  which  purists  have  made  us  all  familiar  in 
judging  of  the  correctness  of  usage.  He  first  laid 
down  dogmatically  certain  rules  for  deciding  upon  the 
merits  of  the  work  he  was  considering.  Whether  these 
rules  were  rig-lit  or  wrong-  was  a  detail  which  did  not 
engage  his  attention.  He  announced  them,  he  tried 
everybody  by  them.  According  as  men  conformed  to 
them  or  failed  to  conform,  they  were  adjudged  inno- 
cent or  guilty. 

To  Rymer  belonged  one  characteristic  which  some 
seem  to  regard  as  the  crowning  qualification  of  a  critic. 
He  was  entirely  devoid  of  literary  taste.  The  danger 
of  having  it  is  patent.  Its  possessor  may  be  tempted 
to  entertain  and  even  express  a  high  opinion  of  what 
the  rules  he  has  adopted  teach  him  he  ought  to  dis- 
approve. This  was  something  liable  to  exert  at  times 
a  baleful  influence  over  the  best-intentioned  judges, 
who  had  fortified  themselves  against  such  misleading 
admiration  by  a  thorough  mastery  of  the  principles  of 

1  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  p.  44. 
228 


MINOR   DRAMATIC  CONVENTIONS 

art.  There  is  a  remarkable  confession  of  this  sort  by 
Gildon,  much  learned  in  the  critical  jargon  of  the  time. 
"  In  spite  of  his  known  and  visible  errors,"  he  said, 
"  when  I  read  Shakespeare,  even  in  some  of  his  most 
irregular  plays,  I  am  surprised  into  a  pleasure  so  great, 
that  my  judgment  is  no  longer  free  to  see  the  faults, 
though  they  are  ever  so  gross  and  evident.  There  is 
such  a  witchery  in  him,  that  all  the  rules  of  art  which 
he  does  not  observe,  though  built  on  an  equally  solid 
and  infallible  reason,  as  entirely  vanish  away  in  the 
transports  of  those  that  he  does  observe,  as  if  I  had 
never  known  anything  of  the  matter."  l 

Rymer  never  fell  a  prey  to  feelings  of  this  nature. 
From  any  temptation  to  swerve  from  the  plain  path  of 
critical  duty  by  the  operation  of  literary  taste  he  always 
remained  perfectly  free.  In  the  preface  to  his  trans- 
lation of  Rapin  he  gave  an  account  of  English  epic 
poetry.  Spenser  was  the  first  author  considered  in  con- 
nection with  it.  To  him  Rymer  accorded  a  qualified 
praise.  He  possessed  genius  for  heroic  poetry  ;  unfor- 
tunately, he  lacked  a  true  idea  of  it.  Hence  in  his 
matter  he  had  been  misled  by  following  Ariosto  as  a 
guide,  and  in  his  manner  by  adopting  a  stanza  which 
is  in  no  wise  proper  for  our  tongue.  The  only  two 
other  examples  he  found  to  make  the  subject  of  com- 
ment were  the  '  Davideis  '  of  Cowley  and  the  '  Gondi- 
bert '  of  D'Avenant.  There  was  not  even  an  allusion  to 
'  Paradise  Lost,'  though  it  had  already  passed  into 
its  second  edition  in  the  very  year   in  which  Rapin's 

1  Essay  on  the  Art,  Rise,  and  Progress  of  the  Stage  (1710),  in  edition 
of  Shakespeare,  1728,  vol.  x.  p.  3. 

229 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

work  appeared  in  France.  Later  the  increasing  vogue 
of  this  epic  compelled  kirn  to  mention  it.  This  he 
did  at  the  end  of  the  volume  containing  a  castiga- 
tion  of  a  few  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  plays. 
There  he  promised  another  work  which  should  deal 
with  certain  popular  dramas  of  the  previous  age.  It 
was  also  to  contain,  he  assured  his  readers,  "reflections 
on  that  '  Paradise  Lost '  of  Milton's  which  some  are 
pleased  to  call  a  poem."  This  last  promise  or  threat  was 
never  fulfilled.  The  loss  to  criticism  can  be  endured ; 
the  loss  to  harmless  gayety  is  irreparable.  Further- 
more, JRymer's  want  of  taste  in  appreciation  had 
its  complement  in  an  equivalent  want  of  taste  in  ex- 
pression. His  critical  efforts  bear  throughout  the 
marks  of  literary  vulgarity.  He  wrote  in  a  violent  style 
under  the  impression  that  it  was  vigorous.  He  con- 
stantly indulged  in  coarse  phrases  which,  because  they 
were  coarse,  he  deemed  idiomatic.  It  was  probably  his 
only  method  of  saving  himself  from  being  tedious.  A 
noisy  drunkard  may  be  disagreeable,  but  he  is  not  dull. 
Specimens  of  what  is  really  little  more  than  foul- 
mouthed  railing  will  force  themselves  upon  the  atten- 
tion in  the  account,  to  be  given  later,  of  Ins  attack 
upon  Shakespeare.  Yet,  as  a  foretaste  of  their  char- 
acter, it  may  be  well  to  cite  his  description  of  the 
way  in  which  Amintor  is  described  in  '  The  Maid's 
Tragedy.'  "All  the  passions  in  him,"  he  wrote, 
"work  so  awkwardly,  as  if  he  had  sucked  a  sow."1 

But,  however  little  worth  consideration  Rymer  may 
now  be  conceded  to  have  been  in  himself,  in  the  history 

1  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  p.  127. 
230 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

of  critical  controversy  he  has  always  to  be  reckoned 
with  for  what  he  was  thought  to  be  by  others.  There 
can  be  no  denying  the  influence  he  wielded  in  the  clos- 
ing years  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Undoubtedly 
there  were  many  of  his  contemporaries  who  estimated 
his  views  at  their  real  value.  But  we  have  to  look  the 
fact  in  the  face  that  his  opinions  were  then  usually 
cited  with  deference,  and  that,  when  controverted,  it 
was  done  with  a  certain  uneasiness,  as  if  it  partook  of 
the  nature  of  a  venturesome  proceeding.  Nor  has  the 
regard  paid  to  his  authority  been  limited  to  the  men  of 
his  own  age.  According  to  Spence,  he  was  declared  by 
Pope  to  be  "on  the  whole  one  of  the  best  critics  we 
ever  had."  He  was  mentioned  with  respect  by  Walter 
Scott  as  having  been  one  of  those  who  produced  by 
his  writings  a  more  than  salutary  influence  upon  the 
drama.1  By  Hallam  he  was  treated  with  consideration, 
though  he  confessed  to  having  read  but  one  of  his 
works,  and  that,  it  is  clear,  he  had  read  very  care- 
lessly.2 With  such  credentials  as  these,  the  views  he 
expressed  must  receive  a  certain  amount  of  considera- 
tion from  the  student  of  literary  history.  It  is  a  de- 
plorable necessity.  The  estimation  in  which  Rymer 
was  held  by  many  during  his  lifetime,  the  high  or 
at  least  respectful  opinion  expressed  of  him  by  emi- 
nent men  who  lived  long  after  his  death,  tend  to  make 
one  distrustful  of  anything  and  everything  which  goes 
under  the  name  of  criticism. 

There  were  two  things  which  contributed  to  Rymer's 

1  Essay  on  the  Drama  (1814),  in  Chandos  Classics  ed.,  p.  213. 

2  Literature  of  Europe,  part  iv.,  ch.  7. 

231 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

repute  in  his  own  day.  One  was  his  reputation  for 
learning.  So  far  as  literature  pure  and  simple  is  con- 
cerned, it  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  real  acquire- 
ments. In  that  it  was  neither  varied  nor  profound. 
But  however  limited  his  knowledge,  that  of  the  persons 
with  whom  he  consorted  was  much  less.  He  had  fallen 
upon  a  time  in  which  few  of  his  contemporaries  could 
be  accounted  scholars  in  the  subjects  in  which  he  pro- 
nounced his  decisions  magisterially.  Here  was  a  man 
who  could  talk  familiarly  not  only  about  Greek  and 
Latin,  but  about- Old  French  and  Provencal  and  Italian 
authors.  Those  who  knew  nothing  of  these  latter  were 
not  likely  to  question  any  misinformation  in  regard  to 
them  which  he  cared  to  impart.  Upon  the  men  of  his 
time  his  self-confidence  and  his  dogmatism  not  unnat- 
urally made  a  great  impression.  They  honestly  looked 
up  to  him  as  an  authority.  Nor,  as  an  element  in  his 
success,  can  we  afford  to  overlook  the  effect  wrought  by 
the  violence  and  abusiveness  with  which  he  delivered 
his  judgments.  It  is  wonderful  to  observe  how  often 
and  how  well  ill-nature  will  supply  the  place  of  brains. 
Rymer's  bad  temper  brought  him  a  consideration  and 
respect  which  his  unaided  intellect  could  never  have 
secured. 

It  shows  indeed  how  much  the  repute  of  learning  can 
make  up  for  the  lack  of  real  insight  and  all  genuine 
appreciation  that  Rymer's  critical  essays,  which  were 
only  saved  from  being  intolerably  dull  by  their  exceed- 
ing ferocity,  imposed  even  upon  the  manly  understand- 
ing of  Drj-den.  It  was  partly  to  the  countenance  which 
he  received  from  this  author,  who  as  a  literary  judge 

232 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

was  really  great,  however  unequal,  that  much  of  the  in- 
fluence which  he  exerted  was  due.  To  a  certain  extent 
it  was  a  case  of  reciprocal  flattery.  In  the  preface  to  his 
translation  of  Rapin,  Rymer  had  paid  a  tribute  of  adu- 
lation to  the  most  eminent  man  of  letters  among  his 
contemporaries.  He  had  selected  for  comparison  a  de- 
scription of  night  taken  from  the  Greek  of  Apollonius, 
the  Latin  of  Vergil,  the  Italian  of  Tasso  and  of  Marini, 
the  French  of  Chapelain  and  of  Le  Moyne.  From  Dry- 
den  he  took  a  few  lines  from  '  The  Conquest  of  Mexico.' 
In  these  Rymer  asserted  that  the  English  poet  had  out- 
done all  his  rivals.  "Here,"  said  he,  "is  something 
more  fortunate  than  the  boldest  fancy  has  yet  reached, 
and  something  more  just  than  the  severest  reason  has 
observed.  Here  are  the  flights  of  Statius  and  Marino, 
tempered  with  a  more  discerning  judgment,  and  the 
judgment  of  Virgil  and  Tasso  animated  with  a  more 
sprightly  wit."  This  is  very  silly  criticism,  for  the 
lines  thus  exalted,  while  respectable,  are  not  in  the 
least  remarkable.  But  Dryden  would  have  been  more 
than  human,  had  he  not  treated  with  tenderness  a 
writer  who  had  not  only  gone  out  of  his  way  to  praise 
him,  but  had  ranked  him  higher  than  Vergil  and  Tasso. 
Still  his  respect  for  the  acquirements  of  his  panegyrist 
was  unquestionably  genuine.  "  Judicious "  was  the 
term  he  more  than  once  applied  to  his  observations. 
To  him  he  was  "our  learned  Mr.  Rymer;'  and  he 
paid  a  deference  to  his  opinions  which  now  impairs 
the  deference  we  pa}r  to  his  own. 

Rymer's  critical  views   upon   the   drama   were    first 
communicated  to  the  world  in  a  treatise,  published  in 

233 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

1678,  which  was  entitled  '  The  Tragedies  of  the  Last 
Age  considered  and  examined  by   the  practice  of  the 
ancients  and  the  common  sense  of  all  ages.'     He  set 
out  in  this  to  devote  himself  to  the  six  then  most  ap- 
plauded   productions   of    the    Elizabethan   stage.     He 
actually  did  not  get  much  further  than  a  discussion  of 
the  merits  of  three  plays  of   Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
From  the  work  we  can  gather,  however,  a  pretty  defi- 
nite conception  of  the  opinions  he  held.     It  hardly  need 
to  be  said  that  he  was  an  ardent  upholder  of  the  rules. 
It  was  a  matter  of  course  that  he  should  advocate  the 
unities  and  disapprove  of  the  intermixture  of  comedy  and 
tragedy  and  the  shedding  of  blood.     But  he  was  far  from 
beino-  satisfied  with  limitations  of  this  limited  nature. 
He  devised  a  number  of  other  restrictions,  or  at  least 
brought   them   to   the    attention   of   men,   which   were 
designed  to  add  to  the  decorum  of  the  stage.     One,  to 
which  reference  has  already  been  made,  is  the  doctrine 
of  poetic  justice.     In  regard  to  this   he   was   particu- 
larly emphatic.     But  there  were  several  other  rules  for 
the   conduct  of  the  drama  upon  which  he  laid  stress; 
and   these   deserve    mention   as    evidence    of    the   sort 
of  ideas  that  were  prevalent  at   the  time,  even  when 
they  apparently  received   the   sanction  of   no  one  but 

himself. 

Rymer's  father  had  been  hanged  for  treason  shortly 
after  the  Restoration.  The  son  seems  to  have  felt  it 
incumbent  on  him  to  make  up  for  the  parental  derelic- 
tion by  the  extravagance  of  the  views  he  took  as  to 
what  was  due  to  the  head  of  the  state.  The  feelings 
he  expressed  may  or  may  not  have  been  exhibited  by 

234 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

him  in  bis  personal  conduct;  but  in  the  theoretical 
conduct  of  tbe  drama  be  carried  loyalty  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  devotion.  He  insisted  upon  the  applicability 
to  poetry  of  the  political  maxim  that  the  king  can  do 
no  wrong.  He  drew  a  marked  distinction  between 
monarchs  as  exhibited  by  the  historian  and  by  the  play- 
wright. If  such  personages  were  weak  and  bad  in  real 
life,  they  must  not  be  so  represented  in  letters.  His- 
tory may  know  of  feeble  kings,  of  vicious  kings;  but  to 
such  in  the  drama,  Rymer  tells  us  that  Aristotle  cries 
shame.1  Poetry  will  allow  no  such  unbecoming  treat- 
ment of  the  Lord's  anointed.  Though  it  is  not  neces- 
sary that  all  the  heroes  of  tragedy  should  be  of  the  class 
of  rulers,  all  rulers  of  tragedy  must  be  heroes.  It  was 
a  prerogative  inviolably  attached  to  the  crown,  which 
neither  a  poet  nor  a  parliament  of  poets  had  the  right 
to  invade.  He  carried  this  doctrine  to  the  farthest 
extreme  in  its  applications.  A  king,  so  far  from  being 
criminal,  cannot  be  accessary  to  a  crime.2  Naturally 
the  Elizabethan  dramatists  would  suffer  condemnation 
under  the  working  of  this  principle.  For  plays  so 
flagrantly  violating  it  as  '  Richard  III.'  and  '  Macbeth,' 
it  was  demanding  too  much  of  Rymer  to  take  the 
trouble  to  express  the  contempt  which  he  unquestion- 
ably felt.  The  tragedies  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
directly  under  his  consideration,  gave  him  all  the  op- 
portunity for  censure  he  needed.  In  this  particular  ho 
contrasted  the  stage  of  England  under  a  monarch  much 
to  its  disadvantage,  with  the  stage  of  Athens  under  a 
democratic   government.     The    latter   made   its    kings 

1  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  p.  47.  2  Ibid.  p.  115. 

235 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

unfortunate  and   to  be  pitied;   the  former  made  them 
wicked  and  to  be  cursed  and  abhorred.1 

It  was  one  of  the  inferences  drawn  by  Rymer  from 
the  respect  which  must  always  be  paid  to  theatrical 
propriety,  that  according  to  it  no  private  man,  still  less 
a  subject,  could  dramatically  kill  a  king  and  preserve 
decorum.2  To  the  absolute  universality  of  this  rule 
he  allowed  two  exceptions.  A  good  sound  Christian 
might  be  permitted  without  offence  to  make  way  with  a 
heathen  monarch,  who,  in  truth,  by  being  a  heathen, 
was  little  better  than  a  dog.  Again,  a  private  English 
hero  could  be  permitted  to  overcome  in  combat  the  king 
of  a  rival  nation.  In  both  these  instances  there  was 
sufficient  partiality  to  be  presumed  in  the  audience  on 
the  ground  of  religion  and  patriotism  to  justify  such 
deviations  from  the  strict  principles  of  poetic  propriety. 
It  is  right  to  add  that  this  deference  to  monarchs  was 
no  more  than  an  extension  of  the  general  rule  that  no 
person  could  be  suffered  to  deal  death  to  another  on  the 
stage,  unless  the  rank  of  both  was  such  that  in  real  life 
the  laws  of  the  duello  would  permit  them  to  meet  in 
mortal  combat.3  At  least  a  man  could  not  deal  death 
to  one  above  him;  to  slay  an  inferior  was  at  worst  a 
peccadillo.  But  no  servant  could  slay  his  master; 
hence  we  can  see  how  much  more  would  dramatic  pro- 
priety be  outraged  by  a  subject  killing  his  liege  lord. 
The  conduct  of  Cornwall  in  '  King  Lear '  would  be 
conceded  to  be  revolting,  morally;  but  it  could  not 
compare  in  artistic  hideousness   with   that  of  his  ser- 

1  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  p.  29. 

2  Ibid.  p.  117.  8  Ibid. 

236 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

vant,    who   engages   him   in   combat  and  wounds  him 
mortally. 

Not  merely  must  he  be  possessed  of  masculine  vanity, 
but  thrice  must  he  be  armed  with  desperate  daring,  who 
at  the  present  day  should  venture  to  put  forth  a  further 
amplification  of  this  rule  which  Rymer  then  fearlessly 
enounced.  In  poetry,  he  tells  us,  no  woman  is  to  be 
permitted  to  kill  a  man  unless  her  superiority  of  station 
is  sufficient  to  counterbalance  her  inferiority  of  sex.1 
In  truth,  the  laws  of  the  drama,  as  set  forth  by  its  then 
leading  expounders,  were  very  strict  on  the  subject  of 
female  propriety.  The  distinguishing  characteristic  of 
woman,  according  to  Rymer,  is  modesty;  and  therefore 
tragedy  cannot  properly  represent  her  as  being  without 
that  quality.  Although  he  maintains  an  air  of  reserve 
as  to  the  truth  of  the  asserted  fact,  Rymer  fortifies  the 
position  he  takes  on  this  point  by  a  reference  to  what 
some  writers  of  natural  history  have  reported,  which 
is  that  "women  when  drowned  swim  with  their  faces 
downwards,  though  men  on  the  contrary."2  This  es- 
tablishes, beyond  question,  the  principle  that  modesty 
must  be  regarded  as  an  essential  characteristic  of  the 
female  sex.  Accordingly,  if  one  of  their  number  has 
chanced  to  get  "any  accidental  historic  impudence," 
as  Rymer  phrases  it,  she  must  cease  to  stalk  in  trag- 
edy and  pack  off  instead  to  comedy.3  In  truth,  woman 
had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it  at  the  hands  of  the 
apostles  of  the  pure  principles  of  art.  Not  merely  was 
her  right  to  be  wicked  and  immodest  questioned;  her 

1  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  p.  117. 

2  Ibid.  p.  113.  3  Ibid.  p.  114. 

237 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

liberty  of  action  in  more  decorous  ways  was  restricted. 
Thus  Gildon  tells  us  that  in  drawing  the  manners  in 
the  drama  they  ought  always  to  be  made  agreeable  to  the 
character.  This  requires  every  member  of  the  female 
sex  to  be  depicted  as  destitute  of  valor:  for  valor, 
though  a  moral  virtue,  is  a  masculine  one ;  it  does  not 
belong  to  a  woman,  who  ought  neither  to  be  bold  nor 
valiant.1  Furthermore,  she  must  not  be  credited  with 
abstruse  knowledge,  "  which  the  ladies  are  by  no  means 
esteemed  capable  of."2 

Much  more  had  Rymer  to  say  of  what  the  poetic  art 
required  and  what  it  forbade.  All  through  his  work 
are  scattered  reflections  which  are  anything  but  the 
result  of  reflection.  He  invariably  laid  down  the  law 
with  an  assurance  equal  to  the  assurance  with  which 
we  can  reject  it.  But  his  views,  if  not  worthy  of  ac- 
ceptance, are  worthy  of  mention  ;  for  they  are  those  of 
a  man  whom  his  age  regarded  as  one  of  the  most 
judicious,  if  not  the  greatest  of  critics.  Accordingly 
here  will  be  given  a  statement  of  all  of  any  importance, 
in  addition  to  those  already  indicated  or  described. 
They  are  briefly  as  follows.  Tragedy  requires  not  only 
what  is  natural,  but  what  is  great  in  nature.  Both 
matter  and  expression  must  be  in  consonance  with  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  high  position  and  court- 
education  might  inspire.3  The  malefactors  of  this 
species  of  the  drama  must  be  of  a  better  sort  than  those 
usually  found  among  the  living;  for  an  obdurate,  impu- 
dent, and  impenitent  malefactor  can  neither  move  pity 

1  Complete  Art  of  Poetry,  vol.  i.  p.  247.  2  Ibid.  p.  250. 

8  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  p.  43. 

238 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

nor  terror.1  Poetry  will  allow  no  provocation  in  injury 
where  it  allows  no  revenge.  It  will  permit  no  affront 
where  there  can  be  no  reparation.2  When  a  sword  is 
once  drawn,  the  scabbard  must  be  thrown  away.  There 
is  no  abandoning  what  is  once  designed  until  it  be  thor- 
oughly effected.  Tragedy  is  no  place  for  cowards,  nor 
for  giddy  fellows,  nor  for  bullies  with  their  squabbles.3 
Furthermore,  if  actions  morally  unnatural,  if  strange 
events  are  to  be  represented  as  happening,  they  must  be 
duly  foretold  by  signs  and  portents.  Heaven  and  earth 
must  be  in  disorder;  nature  must  be  troubled;  unheard  of 
prodigies  must  occur;  spirits  must  rise  from  the  dead  and 
breathe  forth  cursing  and  slaughter.4  Rules  like  these 
are  specimens  of  the  inanities  which,  according  to  Scott, 
produced  a  more  than  salutary  influence  upon  the  stage. 
In  one  respect  Rymer  treated  fairly  the  men  he  criti- 
cised. He  set  out  to  illustrate  his  faith  by  his  works. 
His  volume  commenting  upon  the  tragedies  of  the  last 
age  bore  an  advertisement  to  the  effect  that  shortly 
would  be  published  an  heroic  play  of  his  own  under 
the  title  of  '  Edgar,  or  the  English  Monarch.'  In  due 
time  the  work  appeared.  Scott  has  told  us  that  both 
Rymer  and  Dennis  were  ill-advised  enough  to  attempt 
themselves  to  write  for  the  stage,  and  thereby  proved 
most  effectually  that  it  was  possible  for  a  drama  to  be 
extremely  regular,  and  at  the  same  time  intolerably 
dull.  The  observation  leads  one  to  suspect  that  Scott 
had  never  read  the  works  he  compared.  The  plays  of 
Dennis,    like   most   of   those   of   his   time,   may  justly 

1  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  p.  36.  -  Ibid.  p.  126. 

8  Ibid.  p.  135.  4  Ibid.  p.  22. 

239 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

enough  be  termed  dull,  though  two  or  three  of  them 
met  with  a  fair  degree  of  success.  But  that  adjective 
is  altogether  too  respectable  an  epithet  to  apply  to  the 
single  production  which  Rymer  wrote.  Were  it  merely 
dull,  it  might  take  its  place  by  the  side  of  hundreds 
of  pieces  produced  in  strictest  conformity  to  what 
was  called  art.  The  student  of  the  English  drama, 
especially  from  the  Restoration  onward,  has  to  wade 
through  a  mass  of  worthless  works,  but  he  will  find 
none  poorer  in  plot  and  wretcheder  in  execution  than 
Rymer's  '  Edgar. '  It  is  not  mediocre:  it  is  mean.  It 
is  a  rymed  heroic  tragedy,  and  Dryden  had  caused  this 
species  of  dramatic  production  to  be  liked  by  many  and 
to  be  made  tolerable  to  all  by  the  excellence  of  his 
versification.  But  in  '  Edgar '  the  meanness  of  the 
matter  is  only  exceeded  by  the  meanness  of  the  manner. 
It  is  a  ryming  play,  and  no  small  proportion  of  its  so- 
called  rymes  cannot  properly  be  said  to  ryme  at  all. 
It  furthermore  abounds  in  rugged  and  halting  lines. 
In  truth,  its  sixty-three  pages  contain  more  execrable 
rymes  and  splayfoot  verse  —  to  use  Pope's  phrase  — 
than  any  similar  production  in  our  literature  written  by 
an  author  of  the  least  pretension  whatsoever. 

No  one  has  ever  been  found,  so  far  as  I  can  discover, 
to  speak  a  word  in  commendation  of  this  play,  which 
no  one,  furthermore,  ever  thought  it  worth  while  to 
bring  out  on  the  stage.  But  the  frailty  of  human 
nature  is  shown  in  the  fact  that  in  writing  it  Rymer 
found  himself  unable  to  live  up  to  the  rigor  of  his  own 
precepts.  Into  an  heroic  play  he  perhaps  had  to  intro- 
duce love ;  this,  at  all  events,  he  did  on  a  grand  scale. 

240 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

But  he  certainly  sinned  against  what  he  deemed  light 
by  permitting  a  woman  to  perpetrate  a  murder,  even 
though  it  was  done  decorously  behind  the  scenes.  But 
the  failure  of  his  work  to  interest,  its  inability  to  excite 
any  other  feelings  than  those  of  ennui  or  derision,  did 
not  discredit  the  doctrines  of  its  author  with  the  par- 
tisans of  his  school.  Art  is  true,  they  would  say, 
however  much  its  champions  cast  reproach  upon  it  in 
their  efforts  to  illustrate  it.  The  doctrine,  in  par- 
ticular, that  the  hero  of  a  tragedy  must  never  be  por- 
trayed as  a  feather-head  or  a  reprobate,  especially 
when  that  hero  is  a  monarch,  found  ready  acceptance 
in  days  when  the  duty  of  passive  obedience  was 
preached  from  every  loyal  pulpit.  It  received  on  more 
than  one  occasion  the  sanction  of  Dryden.  The  effect 
of  this  belief  can  be  traced  not  only  in  original  pieces, 
but  in  the  alterations  that  were  made  of  Shakespeare's 
plays.  Tate,  in  his  version  of  '  Richard  II.,'  informs 
us  in  his  dedicatory  epistle  that  he  has  modified  the 
action  of  the  monarch,  as  depicted  in  the  earlier  work, 
in  order  to  make  it  conform  to  Mr.  Rymer's  theory  that 
kings  are  always  to  be  presumed  heroes. 

We  do  not  need  to  be  told  now  that  all  such  rules, 
propounded  for  the  enforcement  of  dramatic  propriety, 
when  not  merely  personal  conceits,  are  nothing  but  arti- 
ficial conventions.  In  devising  them  there  was  no 
thought  of  attempting  to  bring  about  a  genuine  por- 
trayal of  life.  Their  inception  was  due  in  the  first 
instance  to  French  influence;  though  the  English  writ- 
ers,  following  the  manner  of  all  imitators,  were  con- 
stantly disposed  to  better  the  instructions  of  their 
is  241 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

masters.  There  is,  however,  another  movement  to  be 
considered,  which  owed  its  origin  largely  to  the  admi- 
ration felt  for  the  ancient  Greek  drama.  The  modern 
stage,  even  when  it  was  most  regardful  of  the  rules, 
had  fallen  into  decay,  it  was  said,  in  consequence 
of  its  being  given  up  to  gallantry  and  intrigue  in  its 
matter,  with  the  artificial  and  complicated  situations 
thereby  caused.  There  was  one  way  to  restore  it  to  its 
ancient  simplicity  and  purity  and  pathos.  This  was  to 
revive  the  chorus.  It  was  the  chorus  in  its  genuine 
Greek  sense  that  was  contemplated,  —  that  is,  a  body 
of  persons  who  actually  take  part  in  the  plajr,  com- 
menting upon  what  is  passing  before  their  eyes, 
expressing  opinion  and  giving  advice.  This  is  some- 
thing altogether  distinct  from  the  character  who  as- 
sumes  that  title  in  the  Elizabethan  drama.  There 
it  is  a  personage  like  Time  in  '  The  Winter's  Tale ' 
or  Gower  in  '  Pericles, '  who  comes  forward  to  announce 
to  the  audience  what  they  may  expect  to  hear  and 
behold  in  the  scenes  about  to  be  played.  That  duty 
done,  he  retires  and  takes  no  further  share  in  the 
action.  Even  in  the  tragedies  formed  upon  the  Senecan 
model,  the  chorus  is  no  chorus  in  the  Greek  sense. 
While  it  adopts  the  lyric  form  for  its  utterance,  it 
plays  no  necessary  part  in  the  drama,  and  confines 
itself  to  the  utterance  of  instructive  moral  reflections 
between  the  acts.  It  is  this  limitation  which  kept 
Jonson  from  making  any  attempt  to  introduce  it  into 
his  '  Se janus. '  No  one,  he  said,  —  not  even  those  who 
had  most  affected  laws,  —  had  reproduced  it  in  real- 
ity. This  opinion,  however,  did  not  prevent  him  from 
adopting  it  later  in  his  '  Catiline.' 

242 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

Every  one,  indeed,  who  was  free  from  the  glamour 
wrought  by  classical  antiquity  saw  the  uselessness  of 
the  attempt  to  give  a  second  life  to  what  was  so  thor- 
oughly dead.  But  in  the  learned,  as  opposed  to  what 
may  be  called  the  lay  world,  there  was  always  a  longing 
to  restore  this  characteristic  of  the  Greek  drama.  Its 
revival  was  a  dream  constantly  cherished.  Milton  car- 
ried the  dream  into  realization.  But  his  '  Samson 
Agonistes  '  was  avowedly  never  intended  for  the  stage, 
and  its  form  and  spirit  are  too  alien  to  modern  tastes 
to  permit  it  to  meet  there  with  genuine  success.  Still 
scholars  continued  to  cling  to  the  Greek  drama  and  to 
hold  up  its  methods  as  the  ideal  to  be  kept  in  view. 
They  were  not  disposed  to  take  account  of  differences 
wrought  by  time,  by  custom,  by  taste.  Roscommon 
complained  that  since  dramatic  poetry  had  lost  its 
chorus  it  had  lost  at  least  half  of  its  verisimility  and 
greatest  ornament,  rendering  modern  tragedy  no  more 
than  the  shadow  of  the  ancient.1  This  same  belief 
gained  about  the  same  time  a  certain  sway  in  France, 
and  to  some  extent  affected  the  action  of  its  then 
greatest  living  dramatist.  In  his  Esther  and  Athalie 
Racine  introduced  the  chorus.  His  action  in  so  doinsr 
was  hailed  in  England  as  the  dawn  of  a  better  day. 
Rymer  expressed  himself  rapturously  over  the  results 
that  would  follow  from  the  general  adoption  of  the 
practice.  What  reformation,  he  exclaimed,  might  not 
be  expected,  now  that  the  most  necessary  part  of  trag- 
edy has  resumed  its  rightful  place.  Time  and  place 
shall  no  longer  be  juggled  with,  he  added ;  and  as  the 

i  Note  on  line  193  of  Horace's  'Art  of  Poetry  '  (1681). 

243 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

chorus  itself  constitutes  a  goodly  show,  there  will  be 
no  need  of  running  after  toys  and  hobby  horses  foreign 
to  the  subject  in  order  to  humor  the  multitude.1 

But  on  this  point  Rymer's  views  encountered  oppo- 
sition. His  fellow-critic,  Dennis,  at  once  attacked  his 
position,  not  only  with  vigor,  but  with  a  line  of  reason- 
ing which  was  not  easy  to  meet  successfully.2  In  his 
opinion  not  only  was  the  chorus  unnecessary  to  the 
modern  stage,  it  was  improper.  If  the  Greek  method 
and  the  Greek  tragedy  were  to  be  set  up  in  England, 
it  would  be  requisite  to  introduce  not  only  their  reli- 
gion and  their  polity  but  also  their  climate.  To  a 
modern  audience  the  spectacle  of  a  chorus  singing  and 
dancing  upon  every  terrible  and  moving  event  would 
not  only  seem  unnatural,  but  would  be  actually  ridicu- 
lous. Dennis  went  farther.  He  attacked  the  ancient 
drama  itself  for  the  existence  in  it  of  that  very  body 
of  performers  which  it  was  pretended  would  add  to 
the  perfection  of  the  modern  drama.  He  specifically 
censured  the  absurdity  which  its  presence  had  imparted 
to  the  '  Electra  '  of  Sophocles.  In  the  fourth  act  of 
that  tragedy  Orestes  discovers  himself  and  his  design 
to  his  sister  in  the  sight  and  hearing  of  the  chorus. 
Accordingly  he  intrusts  a  secret,  upon  which  his  rule 
and  life  depend,  to  the  faith  of  sixteen  women.  It 
was  not  the  only  criticism  of  this  kind  which  was 
brought  against  masterpieces  of  the  Greek  stage.  Ros- 
common, for  instance,  had  previously  found  fault  with 
two  plays  of   Euripides    for    precisely    the    same  rea- 

1  Short  View  of  Tragedy,  p.  1. 

a  In  'The  Impartial  Critick'  (1693). 

244 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

son.1  About  a  century  after  we  find  Walpole  repeating 
the  objection.  "This  mob  of  confidents,"  said  he,  "are 
the  unnatural  excrescences  of  a  drama  whose  faults  are 
admired  as  much  as  its  excellences.  With  all  the 
difference  of  Grecian  and  French  and  English  manners, 
it  is  impossible  to  conceive  that  Phredra  trusted  her 
incestuous  passion  and  Medea  her  murderous  revenge 
to  a  whole  troop  of  attendants." 

Objections  of  this  sort  produced  no  effect  upon  clas- 
sical scholars.  Dr.  Francklin,  in  his  '  Dissertation  on 
Ancient  Tragedy,'  a  sort  of  supplement  to  his  trans- 
lation of  Sophocles,  advocated  the  restoration  of  the 
chorus.  So  did  Hurd  in  the  notes  to  his  edition  of 
the  Ars  Poetica  of  Horace.  Still  these  were  purely 
academic  opinions.  No  one  thought  of  carrying  them 
into  practice.  At  least,  if  any  one  did,  his  enthusiasm 
was  speedily  cooled  by  the  chilling  reception  the  pro- 
posal met  from  those  who  cared  more  for  the  taste  of 
the  public  than  for  the  prejudices  of  classical  scholars. 
If  an  author  did  not  have  the  sense  to  see  that  it  was 
about  as  feasible  to  revive  the  old  Greeks  themselves 
as  the  form  of  their  tragedy,  he  could  rely  upon  having 
his  eyes  opened  by  the  men  who  would  have  to 
bear  the  cost  of  this  artificial  product.  In  1734 
'Junius  Brutus,'  a  play  taken  by  William  Duncombe 
from  the  Brutus  of  Voltaire,  was  brought  out  at  Drury 
Lane.  In  the  preface  to  the  piece,  as  printed,  its 
adapter  told  us  that  he  had,  at  the  instance  of  some 
learned  friends,  purposed  choruses  for  the  play,  after 
the  manner  of  the  ancients.     But  he  found  no  disposi- 

l  Note  to  line  200  of  Horace's  '  Art  of  Poetry.' 
245 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

tion  in  the  managers  of  the  theatre  to  go  to  the  expense 
of  such  an  undertaking.  Accordingly  he  had  been 
obliged  to  drop  the  design.  Few  there  were,  however, 
who  entertained  any  thought  of  thus  appealing  to  the 
public.  On  the  contrary,  those  who  wrote  plays  after 
the  Greek  fashion  professed,  like  Milton,  that  they 
never  intended  them  for  stage  representation. 

This  was  true  of  the  most  noted  attempt  of  the  kind 
made  in  the  eighteenth  century.1  It  was  the  work  of 
Mason.  The  reputation  which  this  writer  enjoyed  after 
the  death  of  Gray  is  almost  as  inexplicable  as  that  ac- 
quired by  Hayley,  who  was  his  fervent  admirer.  There 
was  little  limit  to  the  praise  showered  upon  him  by  the 
leading  critical  periodicals  of  his  day.  Dissenters  there 
were,  it  is  true ;  but  their  voice  was  scarcely  heard  in 
the  chorus  of  applause  with  which  his  efforts  were  gen- 
erally greeted.  He  was  constantly  called  a  great  poet. 
He  was  not  unfrequently  mentioned  in  terms  which 
would  not  have  been  inapplicable  to  Vergil.  After  his 
two  dramas  appeared  he  was  more  specifically  styled 
Britain's  Sophocles.  Not  a  work  he  produced,  no  mat- 
ter how  dull,  —  and  in  the  production  of  dull  works  he 
achieved  some  most  notable  successes,  —  but  was  spoken 
of  with  respect  by  almost  everybody,  and  in  some 
quarters  was  welcomed  with  acclamation.  The  classi- 
cal scholar,  Glasse,  translated  into  Greek  his  '  Carac- 
tacus.'  For  his  presumption  in  so  doing  he  suffered  a 
merited  rebuke.     "How  can  any  additional  embellish- 

1  The  only  other  play  of  this  period,  aiming  to  reproduce  anything 
of  the  form  and  manner  of  Greek  tragedy,  which  I  have  chanced  to 
meet  any  account  of,  is  a  dramatic  poem  by  John  Sargent,  published 
in  1785,  and  entitled  'The  Mine.' 

246 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

ments,"  wrote  the  indignant  reviewer,  "be  expected  to 
heighten  the  beauties  of  a  performance,  where  strength 
of  reason  unites  with  the  boldest  flights  of  imagination ; 
where  elevation  of  sentiment  and  brilliancy  of  expres- 
sion are  conspicuous  in  the  most  eminent  degree,  and 
reflect  a  mutual  light  to  adorn  each  other?"1  Similar 
outbursts  of  admiration  for  the  felicity  and  splendor 
which  characterized  this  chaste  and  noble  model,  as  it 
was  declared  to  be,  of  the  Greek  drama,  can  be  found 
in  profusion.  It  is  not  the  only  time  in  the  history 
of  letters  that  the  whistle  of  a  tin-trumpet  has  been 
mistaken  for  the  blast  of  a  clarion.  It  was  a  saying; 
of  Aristotle  that  the  mass  of  men  are  better  judges  of 
music  and  poetry  than  a  small  number  of  them,  how- 
ever eminent.  Mason's  fortunes  furnish  an  additional 
proof  to  the  many  that  exist  of  the  justice  of  this 
dictum,  rightly  understood.  All  the  glorification  of 
his  poetry  by  the  select  few  could  never  make  him 
really  popular.  He  had  a  thin  vein  of  satire  which 
brought  him  for  a  time  some  genuine  success.  Even 
that  was  a  soil  which  was  speedily  exhausted ;  while 
the  false  glitter  of  his  other  verse,  which  won  him 
reputation  with  the  critics,  never  imposed  upon  the 
reading  multitude.  The  public  that  admired  Gray 
could  never  be  induced  to  accept  Gray's  imitator. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century 
that  Mason  brought  out  one  of  those  inane  imitations  of 
the  Greek  drama,  which  men  at  times  painfully  per- 
suade themselves  that  they  admire.  Compared  witli 
the  glowing  original,  they  have  the  pallor,  the  smileless- 

1  Critical  Review,  vol.  lvii.  p.  1,  Jan.  1784. 
247 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

ness  of  a  corpse,  and  give  the  general  impression  of 
possessing  about  the  same  amount  of  vitality.  This 
particular  one  Mason  called  '  Elfrida.'  He  not  only 
took  care  that  it  should  not  infringe  upon  the  most 
unimportant  of  the  proprieties  of  the  classical  drama,  but 
he  furnished  it  also  with  a  chorus  of  the  most  approved 
pattern.  It  was  published  in  1752.  To  it  he  prefixed  a 
series  of  letters  to  an  unnamed  and  doubtless  imaginary 
correspondent.  Him  he  raised  up  for  the  sake  of  putting 
into  his  mouth  obiections  to  the  course  he  had  taken, 
in  order  to  provide  them  with  a  reply.  In  these  letters 
all  the  ineptitudes  of  the  classicists  were  repeated,  and 
sometimes  in  a  peculiarly  offensive  way.  What  Mason 
told  us  of  the  views  of  others  is,  however,  much  more 
important  than  any  of  his  own  which  he  took  occasion  to 
express.  According  to  him,  it  was  the  common  opinion 
of  his  day  that  adherence  to  the  unities  restrained  the 
genius  of  the  poet.  This,  be  it  remembered,  was  said 
at  a  time  when  English  writers  for  the  stage  almost 
universally  felt  bound  to  observe  them  strictly,  and  did 
so  observe  them.  He  went  on  to  remark  that  this  false 
notion  was  due  to  the  universal  veneration  paid  to 
Shakespeare.  The  disregard  which  he,  in  compliance 
with  the  taste  of  his  age,  had  shown  to  all  the  neces- 
sary rules  of  the  drama,  had  been  considered  as  a  char- 
acteristic of  his  vast  and  original  genius.  Consequently 
it  had  been  set  up  as  a  model  for  succeeding  writers, 
and  had  exercised  a  baleful  influence  upon  the  develop- 
ment of  the  dramatic  art.  As  a  further  confirmation 
of  his  view  he  quoted  with  approval  the  assertion  of 
Voltaire  made  about  a  score  of  years  previously,   that 

248 


MINOR   DRAMA  TIC   CONVENTIONS 

the  merit  of  Shakespeare  had  been  the  ruin  of  the  Eng« 
lish  stage. 

It  is  evidence  of  the  great  dramatist's  influence  that 
this  low  superstition,  as  Mason  termed  it,  was,  in  spite 
of  its  absurdity,  so  popular  that  he  feared  it  would 
never  be  discarded.  The  only  hope  he  saw  for  rescu- 
ing the  stage  from  the  degradation  into  which  it  had 
fallen  was  to  return  to  the  chaste  purity  of  the  ancient 
time  and  restore  the  chorus.  But  this  could  only  come 
about  when  a  great  poet  should  have  arisen  who  would 
possess  the  genius  and  elevation  of  Shakespeare  and  the 
sober  and  chastened  judgment  of  Racine.  There  was 
not  much  hope,  however,  for  the  speedy  appearance  of 
this  prodigy.  Accordingly  he  himself,  though  having, 
as  he  humbly  expressed  it,  but  common  talents,  had  set 
out  to  produce  a  drama  in  which  the  best  models  of 
antiquity  should  be  taken  for  a  guide.  It  was  his 
design,  he  asserted,  to  pursue  the  ancient  method  so  far 
as  it  was  probable  a  Greek  would  do,  were  he  alive,  in 
order  to  adapt  himself  to  the  genius  of  the  times  and 
the  character  of  modern  tragedy.  Nature  and  Aristotle 
were  regarded  by  Mason  as  equivalent  terms ;  but 
everything  they  could  dispense  with  was  to  be  let  go 
in  order  to  accommodate  the  play  to  the  present  taste. 
The  rigor  of  the  classic  drama  was  therefore  to  be  soft- 
ened by  having  the  action  turn  on  the  passion  of  hive. 
It  was  private  distress,  and  not  the  sorrows  of  royalty 
and  the  fate  of  kingdoms  that  was  to  be  used  to  excite 
the  sympathy  of  the  reader. 

Such  was  the  nature  of  the  concession  made  to  modern 
feelings.     On  the  other  hand,  nothing  was  to  be  ad- 

249 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

mitted  or  omitted  at  which  the  Greek  judgment  could 
take  offence.  The  things  upon  which  nature  and 
Aristotle  insisted  were  strict  adherence  to  the  unities 
and  the  retention  of  the  chorus;  in  fact,  the  former 
was  a  consequent  of  the  latter.  In  restoring  this, 
and  thereby  returning  to  the  practice  of  the  an- 
cients, lay  the  only  hope  of  rescuing  the  modern 
i  stage  from  the  decay  which  had  overtaken  it.  For 
the  chorus  Mason  had,  as  he  tells  us,  early  acquired 
veneration.  He  was  disposed  to  regard  it  as  essential 
to  the  tragic  drama.  It  put  necessary  restraints  of  all 
sorts  upon  the  poet.  Its  presence  involved  the  unity 
of  place,  for  its  members  were  too  numerous  to  be  fol- 
lowing the  characters  about.  As  it  also  bore  a  part  in 
the  play  itself,  the  time  of  action  was  necessarily  no 
longer  than  that  of  representation.  Thus  these  two  uni- 
ties, whose  observance  both  common  sense  and  antiquity 
had  prescribed,  would  be  restored  to  the  rights  they 
once  enjoyed  and  still  claimed  by  the  Magna  Charta  of 
Aristotle.  The  chorus,  besides,  added  superior  pomp 
and  majesty  to  the  drama.  It  brought  an  agreeable 
variety  into  the  versification  and  metre.  Above  all, 
it  furnished  a  vehicle  for  the  communication  of  moral 
sentiments.  Its  animadversions  instructed  the  spec- 
tator how  to  be  affected  properly  by  the  words  and 
acts  of  the  characters.  It  kept  him  from  being  misled 
by  their  ill  example,  and  enabled  him  to  profit  by  what- 
ever good  example  they  furnished. 

These  are  Mason's  arguments  for  the  chorus,  set 
forth,  whenever  possible,  in  his  very  words.  Yet  he 
admitted   that  no  popular  success  could  attend  repre- 

250 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

sentations  of  any  such  sort  of  tragic  drama.  It  Mas 
therefore  the  reader  to  whom  he  addressed  himself. 
He  repelled  the  ignoble  motive  of  seeking  the  applause 
of  an  unrefined  and  boisterous  English  audience,  which 
could  not  be  expected  to  appreciate  the  quiet  beauties 
belonging  to  the  chaste  and  noble  style  he  had  adopted, 
but  would  require  instead  action  and  business  and 
bloodshed  in  open  sight.  So,  like  Milton  before  him, 
and  Byron  after  him,  he  professed  not  to  have  in  view 
any  performance  of  his  tragedy;  though  the  writing  of 
a  play  which  is  not  designed  to  be  acted  seems  very 
much  like  training  a  body  of  soldiers  whose  business 
shall  be  under  no  pretext  to  fight,  Still  it  was  felt 
that  pieces  of  this  delicate  and  lofty  character  could 
not  safely  be  exposed  to  the  rude  breath  of  public  as- 
semblies. Their  beauties  would  be  of  the  kind  that 
the  common  class  of  hearers  could  neither  understand 
nor  feel.  The  fate  which  had  befallen  Racine's  work, 
Mason  told  us,  furnished  ample  warning  of  the  disas- 
ter which  would  happen  to  him  who  attempted  to 
repeat  upon  the  English  stage  the  experiment  of  that 
author.  The  French  people  were  far  superior  to  his 
own  countrymen  in  the  taste  for  probability  and  deco- 
rum in  theatrical  diversion.  Yet  they  had  not  con- 
tinued willing  to  put  up  with  the  choruses  introduced 
into  the  two  great  masterpieces,  AthaJie  and  Esther. 
These  were  no  longer  retained  in  the  representation  of 
the  tragedies.  What  hope,  therefore,  could  there  be 
for  pieces  of  this  nature  before  the  kind  of  audience 
that  filled  the  pit  of  an  English  theatre! 

Voltaire  with  his  usual  clearness  of  vision,  whenever 

251 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

preconceived  prejudices  did  not  interfere,  had  recog- 
nized the  absurdity  of  attempting  to  return  to  this 
practice  of  the  ancient  drama.  He  tells  us  that  in  pre- 
paring (Edipe  for  the  stage  he  consulted  M.  Dacier  as 
to  the  methods  he  should  follow.  That  scholar  recom- 
mended him  to  put  a  chorus  in  every  scene,  after  the 
manner  of  the  ancients.  He  might  have  as  well  ad- 
vised me,  said  the  poet  dryly,  to  walk  about  the  streets 
of  Paris  wearing  Plato's  gown.  Yet  unquestionably 
there  would  be  at  times  opportunities  for  experiments  of 
this  sort  which,  by  gratifying  curiosity  and  appealing 
to  attractions  other  than  the  purely  dramatic,  might 
meet  with  temporary  favor.  The  venture  in  which 
Mason  felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  achieve  success 
was  undertaken  by  another.  In  1772  Colman,  who  was 
at  that  time  managing  the  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
brought  out  '  Elfrida.'  It  ran  for  the  number  of 
twenty-seven  nights,1  though  this  was  largely  due  to 
the  spectacular  character  given  it,  and  to  the  music 
of  Arne.  Mason  was  very  indignant  at  this  proceeding 
of  Colman,  who  had  made  use  of  his  production  with- 
out taking  the  trouble  to  ask  his  consent ;  but  the  suc- 
cess which  the  attempt  had  met  led  him  in  1776  to 
alter  for  the  stage  his  second  play  of  the  same  kind. 
This  was  the  one  entitled  '  Caractacus, '  which  had  been 
published  in  1759.  In  1779  he  further  altered  '  Elfrida' 
with  the  same  intent.  Both  these  were  produced  at 
Covent  Garden,  and  the  first  met  with  a  fair  degree  of 
success.2     But  the  novelty  had  worn  off,  and  there  was 

1  Gencst,  vol.  v.  p.  3G1. 

2  It  was  acted  fourteen  times,  according  to  Genest,  vol.  v.  p.  563. 
'Elfrida/  in  Mason's  later  version,  was  acted  five  times,  vol.  vi.  p.  95. 

252 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

a  steady  decline  in  interest  in  these  productions  from 
the  time  of  Column's  first  undertaking.  It  was  only  at 
rare  intervals  that  they  were  ever  brought  out  again, 
and  then  only  for  one  or  two  nights;  and  after  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century  they  were  never  put 
upon  the  stage.  Column  indeed  clearly  believed  that 
whatever  success  they  had  met  with  was  due  to  other 
causes  than  the  interest  which  the  plays  themselves 
had  inspired.  In  truth,  in  his  translation  of  Horace's 
Ars  Poetica,  published  in  1783,  he  pointed  out  the  in- 
expediency and  uselessness  of  the  attempts  to  restore 
the  chorus  to  the  modern  stage.  Furthermore,  he  took 
the  ground  that  if  it  were  revived,  the  other  parts  of  the 
ancient  drama  —  music  and  dancing  —  ought  to  be 
revived  with  it.1 

Mason's  opinions  have  been  given  here  in  full,  not 
because  they  are  important  now  or  were  influential 
then ;  but  mainly  because  they  show  that  the  classicists 
plainly  recognized  what  was  the  influence  that  was  over- 
throwing their  doctrines.  They  are  furthermore  worth 
recording  because  Mason's  friend,  whose  superiority  to 
him  in  scholarship  was  as  great  as  it  was  in  poetry,  was 
thereby  enabled  to  administer  to  him  some  wholesome 
advice,  and  to  lay  down  the  true  doctrine  in  an  age 
which  admired  the  practice  of  Shakespeare  without 
daring  to  follow  it,  and  frequently  felt  under  obligation 
to  apologize  for  admiring  it.  Gray  saw  what  Mason 
could  not  comprehend,  that  the  revival  of  classic  memo- 
ries is  something  altogether  distinct  from  the  revival  of 
the  classic  imagination.     We  know  that  he  thought  none 

1  Note  to  line  288  of  Coknan's  translation  of  Horace's  Ars  Poetica. 

253 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

too  highly  of  '  Elfrida ; '  but  he  thought  far  less  of  the 
views  which  had  been  expressed  in  the  letters  with 
which  it  had  been  introduced.  He  assured  Mason  that 
the  reasons  advanced  by  him  were  all  wrong.  He  de- 
clared that  the  ancients  were  perpetually  confined  and 
hampered  by  the  necessity  of  using  the  chorus,  and  that 
its  abolition  had  given  greater  liberty  both  in  the  choice 
of  the  fable  and  in  the  conduct  of  it.  "  Love  and  tender- 
ness," he  wrote  to  his  friend,  "delight  in  privacy. 
The  soft  effusions  of  the  soul,  Mr.  Mason,  will  not  bear 
the  presence  of  a  gaping,  singing,  moralizing,  uninter- 
esting crowd.  And  not  love  alone,  but  every  passion, 
is  checked  and  cooled  by  this  fiddling  crew.  How 
could  Macbeth  and  his  wife  have  laid  the  design  for 
Duncan's  murder?  What  could  they  have  said  to  each 
other  in  the  hall  at  midnight,  not  only  if  a  chorus, 
but  if  a  single  mouse,  had  been  stirring  there?  Could 
Hamlet  have  met  the  ghost,  or  taken  his  mother  to  task 
in  their  company  ?  If  Othello  had  said  a  harsh  word  to 
his  wife  before  them,  would  they  not  have  danced  to 
the  window  and  called  the  watch  ?  " l 

If  Gray  failed  him,  Mason  had  a  certain  consolation 
in  knowing  that  his  opinions  met  the  approval  of  Hurd. 
This  writer  was  in  prose  very  much  what  he  himself 
was  in  poetry.  He  was  one  of  those  who  have  regu- 
larly applied  to  them  the  epithet  of  elegant,  for  no  other 
apparent  reason  than  that  they  conspicuously  lack  force. 
From  the  first  Hurd  had  been  a  warm  advocate  of  the 
restoration  of  the  chorus  to  the  modern  drama.  In  one 
of  the  notes  in  his  edition  of  Horace's  '  Art  of  Poetry,' 

1  Works  of  Gray,  vol.  iv.  p.  2  (Mitford's  edition). 
254 


MINOR   DRAMATIC   CONVENTIONS 

he  argued  strongly  for  this  course,  —  that  is,  strongly  in 
the  sense  of  earnestly,  not  in  that  of  effectively.  In  a 
later  reprint  of  this  work  he  brought  forward  as  a  suffi- 
cient proof  of  the  desirability  and  possibility  of  its 
restoration  the  recent  tragedies  of  '  Elfrida '  and  '  Ca- 
ractacus,'  "which,"  he  added,  udo  honor  to  modern 
poetry,  and  are  a  better  apology  than  any  I  could  make 
for  the  ancient  chorus."1  Such  praise  did  not  too 
much  elate  the  author.  Even  upon  his  natural  self-sat- 
isfaction the  consciousness  of  the  superiority  of  the  elder 
dramatist  came  down  with  crushing  force,  as  it  has 
upon  many  far  greater  men.  In  the  dedicatory  poem  to 
Hurd,  with  which  the  later  editions  of  '  Caractacus  ' 
were  accompanied,  Mason  told  of  the  desire  he  had 
felt  to  bring  to  Britain  the  choral  song,  and  to  mingle 
Attic  art  with  Shakespeare's  fire.  But  the  muse  had 
rebuked  his  presumption.  The  one  he  might  suc- 
ceed in  attaining;  the  other  was  beyond  his  reach. 
All  that  Parnassus  could  bestow  had  been  exhausted 
to  light  the  flame  in  Shakespeare's  breast.  There 
was  no  hope  of  rivalling  him.  One  consolation  in- 
deed there  was.  Fire  might  be  lacking;  but  art 
remained.  It  is  very  plain,  however,  from  his  words 
that  it  was  not  much  of  a  consolation. 

In  the  preceding  pages  have  been  given  the  various 
conventional  views  which  have  in  a  measure  swayed  at 
times  the  theatre,  and  affected  the  conduct  and  treat- 
ment of  the  works  produced  for  it;  as  also  by  implica- 
tion the  estimate  in  which  Shakespeare  has  been  held 
in  consequence  of  his  ignorance  or  disregard  of  these 

1  Note  to  line  193  of  the  Ars  Poetica. 
255 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 


restrictions.      There   are   others    about   which  less  in- 
terest and  less  discussion  prevailed  in  England  than  in 
other  lands.     One  of  these  is  the  interlocking  of   the 
scenes  so    that   the   stage  shall   never   be   left  empty. 
This    is  something   which    Ben    Jonson    kept   in  view 
to  a    certain    extent.     By  the    French    critics  it  came 
to    be    considered    among    the    greatest    of    dramatic 
beauties.     Special   stress  was    laid   by   them   upon   it. 
It  was  one  of  the  points  for    which  Voltaire   claimed 
superiority   for   the    stage  of    his   own    country    over 
that  of  antiquity.     Still   it   never   gained   much   con- 
sideration in  England  even  when  French  influence  was 
most  predominant.     That  it  was  not  art,  but  artifice, 
never   occurred    to   any   of  its    advocates.     It  may  be 
called  artifice  of  a  high  order,  if  one  so  chooses;  but 
it  is  none  the  less  artifice.     As  it  was  with  most  of  the 
other  conventions,    the  men  who  sought   to  secure  it 
always   ran   the    risk    of  sacrificing   to   its  acquisition 
natural  beauties  far  greater.     The  same  thing  has  been 
true  of   all  the  rules  and  practices  which  have  been 
described  in  the  present  chapter.     It  was  because  the 
English  race  had  in  Shakespeare  an  example  of  con- 
formity to  nature,   to   truth,  and   to   life,  that   it  was 
saved    from    immolating    these    upon    the    conventional 
altar  which  the  classicists  endeavored  to  set  up. 


256 


CHAPTER   VII 

LATE    SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY    CONTROVERSIES    ABOUT 

SHAKESPEARE 

The  gulf  which  separated  the  England  of  the  Res- 
toration from  the  England  that  preceded  the  Com- 
monwealth was  much  deeper  and  broader  than  would 
naturally  be  indicated  by  the  length  of  time  which 
intervened.  It  was  a  world  of  different  feelings  and 
of  different  ideas  that  came  in  with  Charles  II.  In 
politics  the  same  formulas  continued  to  be  repeated ; 
but  the  meaning  they  had  assumed  was  totally  unlike 
that  which  they  had  once  conveyed.  In  literature  new 
standards  of  criticism  were  set  up,  new  modes  of  writ- 
ing came  into  fashion,  new  species  of  productions  at- 
tracted the  popular  regard.  The  drama  was  quick  to 
respond  to  the  change  in  the  national  feeling.  As  from 
its  very  nature  it  reflects  the  life  of  the  times,  it  soon 
began  to  show  signs  of  that  altered  moral  tone  which 
was  rapidly  permeating  all  classes  of  society.  It  is  the 
wholesale  revolution  of  manners,  the  complete  reversal 
of  the  attitude  previously  assumed  towards  conduct, 
which  is  the  earliest  as  well  as  the  most  significant  char- 
acteristic that  the  Restoration  brings  to  our  notice. 

Yet   though  earliest,  it  must  not  be  imagined  that 
this   change   took   place  on    the  spur  of   the  moment. 
Men  do  not  throw  off  in  a  day  the  restraints  even  of 
17  257 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

hypocrisy,  still  less  those  of  virtue.  The  current  be- 
gan running  immediately,  it  is  true,  and  it  soon  came 
to  run  very  rapidly ;  but  at  first  it  moved  so  slowly 
that  for  the  moment  one  might  deem  it  was  not  moving 
at  all.  But  when  once  under  full  headway  it  made  the 
most  impressive  of  manifestations  of  itself  in  the  reck- 
less, shameless  life  that  was  then  lived,  which  was  soon 
to  find  its  fullest  representation  in  the  witty  but  shame- 
less comedy  that  was  evolved.  For  the  comic  drama 
of  the  forty  years  which  followed  the  Restoration  mir- 
rors the  beliefs  and  sentiments  of  its  fashionable  society 
as  does  no  other  form  of  its  literature,  and  perhaps  as 
does  the  literature  of  no  other  period.  The  rapid  de- 
clension of  character  was  at  the  time  a  matter  of  com- 
ment and  almost  of  boasting.  Dryden's  first  pla}r, '  The 
Wild  Gallant,'  had  been  brought  out  in  16G3,  and  had 
proved  a  failure.  Considerably  altered  for  the  worse 
morally,  it  was  revived  with  more  success  in  1667. 
In  the  prologue  the  author  informed  the  audience  that 
he  himself  had  once  thought  his  hero  monstrous  lewd, 
but  since  his  knowledge  of  the  town  had  increased, 
he  was  ashamed  to  find  him  a  very  civil  sort  of  per- 
sonage. Accordingly  he  had  made  him  lewder.  Yet 
he  felt  that  he  had  not  reached  the  ideal  demanded. 
"  Pray  pardon  him  his  want  of  wickedness,"  he  added. 
Still  the  most  repulsive  impression  produced  by  the 
comic  drama  of  the  age  is  not  its  licentiousness,  gross 
as  that  is,  but  its  selfishness  and  hardness.  Its  fine 
ladies  and  gentlemen  lack  the  ordinary  feelings  of 
humanity.  They  have  none  of  those  redeeming  traits 
of  occasional  kindliness  and  of  generous  impulse  which 

258 


SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY  CONTROVERSIES 

are  frequently  found  in  men  who  to  a  great  extent  spend 
their  lives  in  frivolous  or  vicious  pursuits.  They  are 
cruel,  savages  at  heart,  though  dressed  in  the  height  of 
the  mode  and  gilded  over  with  a  gloss  of  good  manners. 
But  the  most  curious  spectacle  the  members  of  this 
society  present,  as  they  appear  in  the  drama  of  the 
period,  is  their  utter  ignorance  of  anything  in  the 
shape  of  a  moral  code,  their  manifest  unconsciousness 
of  the  desirability  of  refraining  from  any  line  of  con- 
duct that  would  conduce  to  their  own  pleasure  or 
advantage,  merely  on  the  ground  that  it  was  improper 
or  wicked.  The  possessor  of  morals  they  seem  to  have 
looked  upon  with  the  same  inquiring  gaze  of  wonder 
which  fills  the  eye  of  the  ordinary  man  when  he  sees 
some  one  paying  enormous  prices  for  first  editions  of 
books.  Morality,  in  fact,  was  something  so  entirely 
outside  of  their  consideration  and  conduct  that  they 
could  hardly  even  comprehend  the  interest  that  others 
appeared  to  take  in  it.  The  most  they  could  do  was 
to  recognize  it  as  a  factor  which  had  to  be  reckoned 
with,  because  there  were  cases  in  which,  through  the 
agency  of  persons  with  whom  they  came  in  contact, 
it  had  an  indirect  connection  with  themselves.  In 
the  eyes  of  such  a  body  of  men  neither  good  behavior 
nor  good  character  was  a  necessity.  Both,  in  truth, 
were  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  personal  luxuries, 
indulgence  in  which  partook  somewhat  of  the  dis- 
creditable, as  being  of  the  nature  of  an  unmanly  pan- 
dering to  the  prejudices  of  fanatics.  This  is  the 
testimony  of  the  comic  drama ;  it  is  also  the  testimony 
of  records  of  the  time  outside  of  the  drama. 

259 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

To  persons  of  this  class  the  matter  of  Shakespeare's 
plays  would  generally  be  of  little  interest,  even  if  no 
fault  were  to  be  found  with  their  manner.  It  is  obvious 
at  the  outset  that  no  writer  of  the  Elizabethan  period 
would  in  any  case  have  the  aids  to  popularity  which 
belonged  to  him  before  the  great  civil  convulsion. 
Whatever  hold  upon  the  public  the  dramatist  had 
once  had  from  the  impression  wrought  by  his  own 
personality,  had  now  disappeared  entirely.  The  men 
who  could  remember  him  or  remember  his  triumphs 
had  passed  away.  A  new  generation  had  arisen  which 
knew  him  not.  It  was  a  generation,  in  fact,  which  had 
largely  been  taught  to  avoid  him  and  his  kind.  We 
have  to  keep  in  mind  that  for  almost  twenty  years 
preceding  the  Restoration  the  theatres  had  been  closed. 
Consequently,  when  Charles  II.  ascended  the  throne, 
a  generation  had  grown  up  which  had  never  had  the 
opportunity,  even  if  it  had  had  the  desire,  to  witness 
a  stage  representation.  Furthermore,  the  iniquity  of 
it  had  been  sedulously  preached.  It  was  wicked  to 
act  plays ;  it  was  wicked  to  see  them  acted.  No  matter 
how  much  the  reason  might  reject  such  views  as  the 
outcome  of  a  narrow  and  ignorant  bigotry,  the  impres- 
sions of  years  were  not  to  be  effaced  in  a  moment. 
To  the  men  of  the  Restoration  period  the  theatre  had 
not  only  the  allurement  of  a  pleasure  from  which  they 
had  been  long  debarred  ;  to  enhance  the  keenness  of  its 
attractions  was  also  a  latent  sense  that  there  was  some- 
thing wicked  in  the  enjoyment  they  felt. 

The  immortal  diarist,  Pepys,  has  here  let  us  into  the 
workings  of  many  minds  by  revealing  his  own.      He 

260 


SE VENTEENTH-CENTUR Y  CONTROVERSIES 

was  extravagantly  fond  of  the  theatre,  and  spent  no 
small  share  of  his  time  in  forming  resolutions  not  to 
go  to  it  so  frequently,  and  in  reproaching  himself  for 
having  broken  his  resolutions  and  gone.  Part  of  his 
remorse  was  undoubtedly  due  to  the  neglect  of  busi- 
ness such  conduct  entailed.  But  it  is  likewise  easy 
to  see  that  in  frequenting  plays  he  was  at  first  snatch- 
ing also  that  fearful  joy  which  comes  from  pursuing  a 
pleasure  in  which  there  is  an  uneasy  consciousness  that 
we  ought  not  to  indulge.  From  the  point  of  view  of 
the  student  of  the  stage  it  may  be  proper  to  express 
regret  for  the  wearing  away  of  this  particular  incentive 
to  theatre-going  in  the  general  loosening  of  ancient  be- 
liefs which  came  to  prevail.  As  the  flavor  of  iniquity, 
which  gave  a  zest  of  its  own  to  the  attractions  of  the 
playhouse,  was  gradually  lost,  the  temptations  that  beset 
him  to  haunt  it  were  more  and  more  overcome  by  his 
business  habits.  In  1661  he  had  manifested  a  noble 
disregard  of  his  duties,  and  repaired  to  the  theatre  on 
every  imaginable  pretext.  The  record  of  seventy-four 
performances  which  he  witnessed  that  year  he  never 
afterward  equalled.  In  1662  began  his  downward 
career  as  a  contributor  to  our  knowledge  of  the  drama. 
No  better  example  can  be  cited  of  the  injurious  con- 
sequences that  are  liable  to  result  from  too  earnest  and 
unflinching  devotion  to  one's  duty.  No  doubt  Pepys 
improved  his  pecuniary  situation  and  prospects  by  re- 
fraining from  following  his  inclinations,  and  staying 
instead  at  his  office  and  looking  after  matters  to  which 
none  of  the  officials  attended  but  himself.  But  in 
so  doing  he  sacrificed  the  future  to  the  present.     He 

261 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

deprived  posterity  of  much  knowledge  which  he  alone 
would  have  given ;  and  in  addition,  he  permanently  in- 
jured his  own  eyesight. 

As  a  consequence  of  the  long  closing  of  the  theatres, 
the  acting  of  the  plays  of  the  earlier  drama  was  at  first 
a  matter  of  necessity  rather  than  of  choice.  For  a  score 
of  years  there  had  been  little  inducement  for  those  seek- 
ing either  literary  distinction  or  personal  profit  to  write 
for  the  stage.  Dramatic  production  had  therefore  prac- 
tically ceased.  When  the  theatre  was  re-opened  at  the 
Restoration,  with  the  exception  of  D'Avenant  and  Shir- 
ley,—  both  then  nearing  the  grave,  —  the  prominent 
members  of  the  older  generation  of  playwrights  had 
gone.  None  had  come  forward  to  take  their  places. 
The  actors,  accordingly,  were  compelled  to  resort  to  the 
pieces  which  had  been  produced  before  the  civil  war. 
Of  the  writers  of  these,  three  still  retained  the  promi- 
nence which  they  had  enjoyed  from  the  first.  They 
were  Shakespeare,  Jonson,  and  Fletcher.  But  in  the 
change  of  taste  which  was  going  on,  no  reputation  that 
came  down  from  the  past  would  avail  the  dramatist 
much,  or  avail  him  long.  Every  generation  has  a 
thoroughgoing  contempt  for  the  critical  estimate  of  the 
generation  which  precedes  it.  It  is  always  disposed  to 
congratulate  itself  most  complacently  on  the  undoubted 
fact  that  it  itself  has  reached  that  summit  of  perfect 
taste  from  which  it  can  look  with  mingled  amusement 
and  contempt  upon  most  of  the  wretched  stuff  that 
pleased  the  men  of  the  former  age.  The  names  they 
held  in  highest  honor  it  judges  with  calm  but  judicial 
severity,  and  assigns  them  the  precise  position  to  which 

2G2 


SE VENTEENTH-CENTUR  Y  CONTR 0  VERSIES 

they  are  entitled.  Naturally,  this  was  what  the  critics 
of  the  Restoration  period  did  to  the  representative  play- 
wrights of  the  Elizabethan  era. 

The  opinion  entertained  about  Shakespeare  is  the  only 
one  that  concerns  us  especially.     Here,  as  elsewhere, 
Pepys   introduces   us   to  the   knowledge  of   the  inner 
belief  and  feelings  of  the  time.     He  is  by  no  means 
our  only  authority,  but  he  is  our  best,  at  least  our  most 
delightful  one.     Nothing  can  be  more  entertaining  than 
his  delicious  bits   of   criticism,  whose  impudent  inap- 
preciativeness  later  writers  have  occasionally  equalled, 
but  whose  charm  they  have  never  been  able  even  re- 
motely to  rival.     His  good  opinion  of   '  Henry  IV;  M 
his  frequent  guarded  approval  of  '  Hamlet '  and  '  Mac- 
beth ; '    his   characterization   of  '  Twelfth   Night '    and 
'  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew'  as  silly  plays;2  his  peru- 
sal of   '  The  Adventures  of  Five  Hours, '  which  made 
'  Othello,'  which  he  had  previously  thought  a  mighty 
g^ood   play,  seem   by   comparison   a   mean   thing;3   his 
feminine  addiction  to  superlatives,   which    led   him    to 
describe  '  Romeo  and  Juliet '  as  the  worst  play  he  had 
ever  heard  in  his  life,4  and  '  The  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  '  as  the  most  insipid  ridiculous  play  he  had  ever 
seen  in  his  life,5  —  these  choice  critical  comments  cause 
the  most  energetic  modern  censure,  dealing,  as  it  does, 
in   insinuation   rather   than    direct  assertion,    to  seem 
peculiarly  tame  and  pointless.     It  is  not  that  there  are 
no  men  now  who  do  not  think  as  he  did  then;  but  they 

i  Diary,  June  4,  1661.  2  ibid.  Jan.  6,  1668,  and  Nov.  1,  1007. 

8  Ibid.  Aug.  20,  1066.  4  Ibid.  March  1,  1002. 

5  Ibid.  Sept.  29,  1002. 

2G3 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

no  longer  have  the  courage  of  their  convictions,  they 
dare  not  commit  their  real  feelings  even  to  their  diaries. 
However  strange  these  comments  of  Pepys  may  seem  to 
us,  we  are  not  to  forget  that  their  writer  was  an  edu- 
cated man,  a  graduate  of  Cambridge  University,  and 
possessed  of  scholarly,  or,  at  any  rate,  of  antiquarian 
tastes.  In  this  matter  he  was  no  more  than  a  represen- 
tative of  feelings  widely  prevalent  among  the  members 
of  a  certain  class  in  his  age.  The  opinions  he  com- 
mitted to  paper  others  publicly  expressed.  For  in- 
stance, Shirley's  earliest  written  play,  '  The  School  of 
Compliment,'  was  brought  out  in  a  revised  form  in 
1G67,  the  year  after  his  death.  The  prologue  written 
for  the  occasion  announces  that  the  change  of  taste 
long  before  presaged  had  now  come  to  prevail.  In  it 
we  are  told,  — 

"  In  our  old  plays,  the  humor,  love  and  passion, 
Like  doublet,  hose  and  cloak,  are  out  of  fashion ; 
That  which  the  world  called  wit  in  Shakespeare's  age, 
Is  laughed  at  as  improper  for  our  stage." 

With  this  altered  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  public, 
there  is  nothing  surprising  in  the  fact  that  during  the 
score  of  years  immediately  following  the  Restoration 
the  reputation  of  Shakespeare  was  lower  than  it  has 
been  at  any  period  before  or  since.  One  must  guard 
against  the  impression  that  it  was  a  low  one  in  itself. 
There  were  then,  unquestionably,  some  who  stood  ready 
to  deny  him  a  lofty  position.  But  they  were  compara- 
tively few  in  number.  It  was  his  supreme  position 
only  which  was  not  conceded  by  many.  The  superior- 
ity of  Ben  Jonson  was  strongly  maintained  by  a  certain 

264: 


SE  VENTEENTH- CENTUR  Y  CONTR  0  VERSIES 

class.  It  was  not  a  large  one;  but  it  was  made  up 
largely  of  influential  persons.  A  belief  of  this  nature 
existed,  to  some  extent,  before  the  civil  war,  more 
especially  in  what  may  be  called  the  scholastic  section 
of  the  general  body  of  educated  men.  Later  it  in- 
creased for  a  while  rather  than  diminished.  For  no 
inconsiderable  period  after  the  Restoration,  it  was  no 
infrequent  thing  to  find  Jonson  spoken  of  as  surpass- 
ing in  comedy  all  waiters,  whether  ancient  or  modern. 
Shakespeare's  greatness  in  that  field  was  recognized 
only  occasionally;  it  was  not  until  the  middle  of  the 
following  century  that  men  began  to  open  their  eyes  to 
his  superiority.  Down  to  that  time  it  was  to  tragedy 
that  his  reputation  was  principally  confined.  But  while 
Jonson  was  held  up  as  the  greatest  of  English  drama- 
tists by  a  select  circle,  which  arrogated  to  itself  special 
culture,  Fletcher  was  in  the  early  days  of  the  restored 
stage  the  favorite  of  the  theatre -going  public.  There 
are  plenty  of  contemporary  statements  which  imply  this 
fact;  there  is  a  well-known  one  which  establishes  it 
beyond  question.  We  find  it  in  Dryden's  '  Essay  of 
Dramatic  Poesy,'  which  was  published  in  1668,  but 
was  written,  as  he  tells  us,  in  1GG5.  It  bore  emphatic 
witness  to  the  then  greater  popularity  of  the  plays  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  though  it  made  no  attempt  to 
put  them  on  an  equality  with  Shakespeare's  or  Jon- 
son's,  far  less  to  accord  them  actual  superiority.  "  Their 
plays,"  Dryden  wrote,  "are  now  the  most  pleasant  and 
frequent  entertainments  of  the  stage;  two  of  theirs 
being  acted  through  the  year  for  one  of  Shakespeare's 
or  of  Jonson's." 

205 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

The  preference  for  Fletcher  at  that  time  is  perhaps 
not  hard  to  explain.  He  is  remarkable  for  the  easiness 
and  agreeableness  of  his  dialogue,  which  furthermore 
makes  far  less  demand  than  Shakespeare's  either  upon 
the  ability  of  the  actor  or  the  attention  of  the  spec- 
tator. But  the  crowning  reason  for  the  preference  then 
exhibited  is  something  entirely  different.  Fletcher's 
comedies  are  upon  a  distinctly  inferior  plane  of  moral- 
ity. The  conversation  is  often  coarse,  and  at  times 
actually  offensive.  The  licentiousness  characterizing 
it,  which  has  largely  contributed  to  drive  these  plays 
from  the  modern  stage,  undoubtedly  added  to  their 
attraction  at  the  period  of  the  Restoration.  It  is  prob- 
ably the  fact  that  in  every  generation  there  are  people 
who  are  as  much  irritated  by  the  absence  of  indecency  in 
a  dramatic  performance  as  others  are  by  its  presence. 
Such  persons,  who,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  are  exceptional 
now,  seem  to  have  frequently  constituted  the  majority 
of  the  audience  in  the  half  century  that  followed  the 
Restoration.  This  would  be  a  sufficient  reason  of  itself 
why  the  comedies  of  Fletcher  should  appeal  especially 
to  the  reigning  taste. 

In  the  matter  of  morality  Shakespeare  stands  on  an 
inconceivably  higher  level  than  his  then  more  popular 
contemporary.  Contrast,  for  illustration,  '  The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew  '  with  Fletcher's  comedy  of  '  The  Woman's 
Prize,  or  the  Tamer  Tamed.'  The  latter  was  written 
as  a  second  part  to  the  former.  The  moral  superiority 
of  the  greater  dramatist  is  exhibited  on  almost  every 
page.  '  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  '  is  by  no  means  one 
of  Shakespeare's  best  comedies.     But  whatever  its  defi- 

2G6 


il 


SE  VEXTEEXTH-CEXTUR  Y  COXTR 0  YERSIES 

ciencies  as  compared  with  others  of  his  works,  there 
is  scarcely  a  line  in  it  to  offend  not  simply  the  moral 
sense,  but  what  may  be  called  the  moral  taste.  It 
could  be  acted  and  has  been  acted  before  a  modern 
audience  with  the  slightest  possible  excision  or  altera- 
tion. But  Fletcher's  sequel  is  fairly  gross  in  the  in- 
delicacy and  even  vulgarity  of  its  expression.  Speeches 
of  this  sort,  moreover,  are  constantly  put  in  the  mouths 
of  the  female  characters.  The  purely  sensual  side  of 
the  marriage  relation  is  more  than  brought  to  the  atten- 
tion ;  it  is  forced  upon  it  unremittingly.  Yet  this  play, 
which  no  audience  of  the  present  time  would  tolerate, 
was  especially  liked  in  court  circles  before  the  civil 
war,  was  one  of  the  pieces  revived  immediately  after  the 
Restoration,  and  was,  withal,  one  of  the  most  popular. 

But  though  Fletcher  remained  for  a  time  the  favorite 
of  the  public,  his  pre-eminence  did  not  continue  long. 
In  the  race  that  went  on  for  the  position  of  acknowl- 
edged superiority  Shakespeare  gradually  passed  not 
only  his  rival  contemporaries  but  the  whole  body  of  his 
successors.  His  rise  in  estimation  was  the  work  of  no 
party.  He  made  his  way  against  a  determined  disposi- 
tion in  certain  quarters  to  decry  his  merits.  By  some 
his  claims  to  recognition  were  entirely  ignored.  The 
French  exile,  St.  Evremond,  informs  us  that  in  order 
to  do  Ben  Jonson  honor  men  called  him  the  Corneille 
of  England;  but  the  people  with  whom  he  associated, 
and  from  whom  he  learned  all  the  little  he  knew  of 
the  English  drama,  apparently  thought  it  hardly  worth 
while  to  mention  to  him  the  name  of  Shakespeare.  Yet 
amid  all  this  conflict  of  opinion  the  steadily  growing 

267 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

conviction  of  his  immense  superiority  is  revealed  unmis- 
takably in  the  critical  literature  of  the  half  century 
following  the  accession  of  Charles  II.  The  varying 
feelings  of  the  times  about  the  great  dramatist  are  best 
reflected  in  the  pages  of  Dryden,  its  foremost  man  of 
letters.  Necessarily,  in  the  special  literary  estimate 
entertained  at  a  particular  period  about  a  particular 
writer,  we  must  take  into  account  the  ideas  then  domi- 
nant. In  the  judgment  expressed  in  regard  to  an 
author  in  any  epoch  there  is  always  manifest  the  effect 
of  that  general  stream  of  tendency  against  which  men 
struggle  with  difficulty,  and  with  which  they  are  usu- 
ally contented  to  drift.  The  critical  standard  which  is 
erected  by  the  age  is  as  much  to  be  considered  as  the 
personal  equation  of  the  individual. 

It  is  this  which  makes  the  varying  views  of  Dryden 
interesting  and  important.  He  was  a  man  of  broad 
sympathies  as  well  as  keen  insight.  There  was,  in 
consequence,  going  on  in  his  mind  a  constant  struggle 
between  opinions  which  reflect  the  predominant  temper 
of  the  times  and  opinions  which  are  the  outgrowth  of 
his  personal  taste  and  judgment,  and  sometimes  are 
little  more  than  a  reflection  of  his  personal  interests. 
This  explains  largely  his  conflicting  utterances.  Under 
the  influence  of  the  doctrines  accepted  in  his  age  he 
was  determined  to  believe  in  the  inferiority  of  the 
Elizabethan  dramatists,  at  least  in  the  matter  of  art. 
They  were  vigorous,  but  they  were  unpolished  and 
rude.  In  this  particular  D^den  made  as  much  as  he 
could  of  the  superiority  of  his  contemporaries.  Yet  it 
is  clear  from  many  of  his  remarks  that  there  was  in  his 

268 


SEVENTEENTH-CENTUR Y  CONTROVERSIES 

own  mind  indecision  and  uncertainty,  even  when  he 
most  loudly  proclaimed  his  confidence.  We  recognize 
in  his  most  positive  claims  something  of  that  uneasy 
feeling  which  characterizes  pretenders,  who  are  never 
quite  sure  .  that  they  have  a  legitimate  title  to  the 
possessions  which  they  loudly  demand  as  their  right. 
Dryden  might  profess  to  think  that  the  dramatists  who 
flourished  before  the  civil  war  were  ignorant  of  art;  but 
he  could  not  long  hide  from  himself  the  conviction  of 
their  general  superiority  to  the  men  of  his  own  time. 
However  lacking  they  might  be  in  what  was  called 
regularity,  there  was  something  higher  and  nobler  in 
which  they  excelled. 

"  Time,  place,  and  action  may  with  pains  be  wrought, 
But  genius  must  be  born,  and  never  can  be  taught," 

is  the  exclamation,  almost  despairing,  which  he  makes 
in  the  remarkable  epistle  to  Congreve,  upon  the  diffi- 
culties with  which  the  dramatic  writers  of  his  time 
had  to  contend  in  order  to  stand  upon  a  level  with  the 
men  who  had  gone  before.  ki  Theirs  was  the  giant  race 
before  the  flood,"  he  declared.  True,  with  the  return 
of  Charles  the  roughness  of  the  earlv  time  had  been 
polished,  its  boisterousness  had  been  subdued;  but  he 
added  mournfully,  — 

"  Our  age  was  cultivated  thus  at  length, 
But  what  we  gained  in  skill  we  lost  in  strength. 
Our  builders  were  with  want  of  genius  cursed ; 
The  second  temple  was  not  like  the  first." 

It  is  clear  from  the  various  utterances  of  Dryden  that 
the  longer  he  lived  the  superiority  of  Shakespeare  grew 
upon  him.     In  this  particular  also  he  reflected  the  feel- 

269 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

ings  of  his  age  as  well  as  his  own  individual  impres- 
sions.    That  the  reputation  of   the  great  Elizabethan 
continued  steadily  to  increase,  instead  of  diminishing- 
disturbed  a  good  deal  the  classicists  of  the  time.     He 
had  violated  every  one  of  the  rules  upon  which  they  in- 
sisted; for  it  nobody  seemed  to  hold  him  in  less  honor. 
Much  of   the  learned  criticism  to  which  he  was  sub- 
jected was  not  hostile  in  spirit.     Indeed  in  its  way  it 
was  often  inclined  to  be  friendly.      What  irritated  it 
was  the  disposition  exhibited  by  men  to  doubt  the  in- 
fallibility of   the  utterances  it  oracularly  pronounced; 
further,  to  deny  that  the  defects  which  it  imputed  to 
Shakespeare  were  really  defects.     As  time  went  on,  it 
came   increasingly  into    conflict   with   a   belief    in   his 
surpassing   excellence   which   in   its  eyes  was   nothing 
but  bigotry;    but  it  was  a  bigotry  which  not  only  re- 
sisted  the   well-meant   attempts    to   enlighten   it,    but 
resented    any  disposition   manifested   to  depreciate   its 
idol.    In  1710  Gildon,  at  the  conclusion  of  his  '  Remarks 
on  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare, ' 1  declared  that  to  oppose 
the  admirers  of  the  dramatist  was  counted  as  little  less 
than  heresy  in  poetry ;  and  that  these  insisted  that  he 
was  the  greatest  genius  of  modern  times.     He  could 
not  speak  much,  he  said,  in  praise  of  '  Macbeth ; '  yet  he 
did  not  dare  to  censure.     "It  has  obtained,"  he  wrote, 
"  and  is  in  too  much  esteem  with  the  million,  for  any 
man  to  say  yet  much  against  it."     Like  many  of  the 
critics  after  him,  his  words  show  that  he  looked  for  the 
revival  of  a  purer  taste;  but  its  expected  appearance 
kept  receding  farther   and  farther  in  the   distance  as 

i  In  Supplementary  Volume  (1710)  to  Rowe's  Shakespeare  of  1709. 

270 


SEVENTEENTH-CENTUR Y  CONTROVERSIES 

time  went  on.  Yet  no  one  seemed  to  heed  the  lesson 
this  steady  growth  of  reputation  taught.  It  took  more 
than  a  century  for  men  to  draw  from  this  continuous 
and  increasing  popularity  the  seemingly  unavoidable 
inference  that  what  Shakespeare  did  was  artistically 
great,  and  possessed  therefore  that  enduring  vitality 
which  belongs  to  everything  that  is  so  created. 

No  account  of  the  controversies  about  Shakespeare's 
art  during  the  eighteenth  century  can  neglect  the  con- 
sideration of  the  views  about  it,  put  forth  by  those 
who,  whether  little  or  well  known  now,  made  them- 
selves then  prominent  in  the  discussion.  During  the 
half-century  that  followed  the  Restoration  there  were 
but  three  authors  who  dealt  directly  in  Shakespearean 
criticism;  for  Dryden's  observations,  though  frequent 
and  important,  were  brought  in  only  incidentally. 
These  three  were  Rymer,  —  of  whom  some  account 
has  already  been  given,  —  John  Dennis,  and  Charles 
Gildon.  In  some  ways  they  were  men  very  much  alike. 
They  possessed  about  the  same  mental  characteristics.  \ 
To  a  certain  extent  they  encountered  similar  fortunes. 
All  three  fell  under  the  lash  of  Pope ;  though  Rymer, 
having  died  before  he  had  had  the  opportunity  to  give 
the  poet  any  real  cause  of  offence,  escaped  with  slight 
censure,  and,  if  Spence  can  be  trusted,  received  from  him 
praise  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  desert.  Of  the  other 
two  the  modern  estimate  is  largely  based  not  upon  what 
they  were,  but  upon  what  Pope  said  they  were.  All 
three  had  then  the  repute  of  possessing  great  erudition. 
The  reader  of  their  writings  now  is  struck  much  more 
by  the  exhibition  they  make  at  times  of  the  most  in- 

271 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

sufferable  self-conceit  and  arrogance.  All  three  were 
devoted  to  what  they  called  the  poetic  art.  They  all 
wrote  regular  plays  in  conformity  with  its  require- 
ments ;  and  while  neither  those  of  Dennis  nor  of  Gildon 
approached  anywhere  near  the  unrivalled  wretchedness 
of  Rymer's  single  attempt,  their  productions  were  not 
of  sufficient  merit  to  commend  the  practice  of  the  doc- 
trines they  preached.  All  three  looked  at  Shakespeare 
from  essentially  the  same  point  of  view.  They  all 
agreed  as  to  his  deplorable  lack  of  art.  The  first 
reviled  him  for  it ;  the  other  two  grieved  over  it.  -  But 
while  these  last  appeared  as  his  apologists  and  de- 
fenders, they  did  what  they  could  to  injure  his  reputa- 
tion by  bringing  out  abominable  alterations  of  his  plays. 
Of  these  three  writers  Dennis  was  much  the  ablest 
man  as  well  as  the  best  critic.  His  understanding  was 
in  many  ways  acute,  and  his  appreciation  of  poetry 
keen.  Long  before  Addison's  far  better  known  essays 
appeared,  Dennis  had  made  Milton's  epic  the  subject 
of  frequent  extract  and  eulogistic  comment.  In  the 
preface  to  his  tragedy  of  '  Iphigenia, '  which  appeared  in 
1700,  he  had  spoken  of  the  poet  himself  as  "perhaps 
the  greatest  genius  that  has  appeared  in  the  world  these 
seventeen  hundred  years."  In  a  later  work  he  declared 
'  Paradise  Lost '  to  be  "the  greatest  poem  that  ever  was 
written  by  man."1  A  passage  in  the  fifth  book  would 
always  stand  alone  as  the  phoenix  of  lofty  hymns.  No 
equal  of  it,  no  second  to  it  could  be  produced  from 
the  Greek  writers  of  such  productions.2     At  that  early 

1  Dennis's  '  Grounds  of  Criticism  in  Poetry '  (1704),  p.  54. 

2  Ibid.  p.  56. 

272 


SE VENTEENTH-CENTUR  Y  CONTR 0  VERSIES 

period  Dennis's  writings  are  free  from  the  character- 
istics by  which  they  were  afterward  too  much  distin- 
guished.    In  truth,  the  intimate  relations  in  which  he 
stood  with  many  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century  furnish  convincing  evi- 
dence of  the  high  opinion  which  was  then  entertained 
of  his  ability  and  acquirements.     Not  to  speak  of  others, 
he  was  the  friend  and  correspondent  of   Dryden  and 
Wycherley.     To  him  Congreve  addressed  in  the  form 
of  a  letter  his  well-known  essay  on  humor  in  comedy. 
There  was  a  general  respect  felt  for  him  as  a  critic  by 
men  whose  opinions  were  worthy  of  respect.     To  some 
extent  it  was  justified.     But  he  encountered  the  fate  of 
those  who  fall  into  the  error  of   mistaking  temporary 
conventions  for  eternal  verities.     In  the  treatise  on  the 
genius  and  writings  of  Shakespeare,  which  appeared  in 
1712,  he  was  seen  at  his  worst.     Positions  taken  in  it 
were  indefensible,  and  throughout  it  was  deformed  by 
wearisome  twaddle  about  the  poetic  art  and  regret  for 
the  ignorance  of  it  exhibited  by  the  dramatist.     For  all 
that,  his  praise  of  the  poet  was  enthusiastic.      His  taste 
was  always  struggling  with  his  theories,  and  sense  or 
nonsense   followed  according  as  the  one  or  the  other 
prevailed. 

As  time  went  by,  Dennis  found  himself  passed  in  the 
race  by  younger  and  abler  men.  His  plays  achieved  but 
a  moderate  success  on  the  stage,  and  some  of  them  no 
success  at  all.  This  was  to  him  undeniable  proof  of 
the  poor  taste  of  the  age.  He  purposed  the  publication 
of  a  complete  body  of  criticism  in  poetry;  but  as  he 
secured  less  than  eighty  guineas  subscription,  the 
18  273 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

project  had  to  be  abandoned.1  His  ill-fortune  soured  a 
temper  not  originally  remarkable  for  meekness  and  ami- 
ability. He  began  to  assume  a  hostile  attitude  towards 
his  generation.  He  became  a  professed  enemy  to  all 
who  succeeded.  He  was  undoubtedly  sincere  in  his 
assertion  that  he  never  criticised  any  one  who  was  not 
exalted  by  the  public  largely  above  his  deserts.2  But 
there  speedily  comes  to  be  a  fascination  in  procedure  of 
this  kind  which  perverts  the  judgment.  That  men 
speak  highly  of  any  production  is  regarded  as  presump- 
tive proof  that  it  is  poor;  and  the  greater  the  praise 
they  give  it,  the  fiercer  is  the  depreciation.  The  ten- 
dency to  dwell  on  faults  exclusively,  whether  in  a  work 
of  literature  or  in  the  body  politic,  increases  with  indul- 
gence. It  ends  at  last  in  destroying  the  ability  to  see 
things  in  their  true  light  and  estimate  their  relative  im- 
portance. Dennis  went  through  the  usual  experience. 
He  lost  all  sense  of  perspective.  In  addition,  his  criti- 
cism became  more  and  more  of  an  abusive  character. 
He  worked  himself  into  mighty  passions  over  the  pet- 
tiest matters,  and.  along  with  it  indulged  in  gross  per- 
sonalities. He  came,  in  consequence,  into  unfriendly 
relations  with  the  two  most  eminent  men  of  letters  of 
the  time,  who  belonged  themselves  to  different,  if  not 
to  hostile  parties ;  though  in  the  case  of  one  of  them  he 
seems  not  to  have  been  the  aggressor.  Still  in  both 
instances  it  was  he  who  in  the  long  run  suffered  by  it, 
not  they.     The  adherents  of  Addison  bore  him  no  good- 

1  Preface  to  '  Grounds  of  Criticism  in  Poetry ; '  also  Gildon's  '  Com- 
plete  Art  of  Poetry, '  vol.  i.  p.  185. 

2  Preface  to  '  Remarks  upon  Pope's  Translation  of  Homer'  (1717). 

274 


SE VENTEENTH-CENTUR Y  CONTROVERSIES 

will,  and  he  will  never  recover  from  the  representations 
and  misrepresentations  of  his  character  which  Pope  has 
transmitted. 

Gildon,  the  third  of  these,  wrote  much  more  about 
Shakespeare  than  the  two  others,  but  is  now  known 
the  least.  Superior  himself  to  liymer,  he  looked  upon 
Dennis  as  his  master,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion 
celebrated  him  as  the  most  consummate  critic  of  the 
age.1  He  experienced  the  same  unhappy  fate  as  his 
leader.  He  incurred  the  enmity  of  Pope,  which,  like 
the  wrath  of  Achilles,  sent  to  untimely  graves  the 
reputations  of  scores  of  writers  of  more  or  less  ability. 
Gildon  lived  until  1724,  but  it  was  not  till  near  his 
death  that  the  hostility  of  the  poet,  which  had  been 
previously  exhibited  in  prose,  embalmed  itself  in  verse. 
In  a  fragment  published  the  previous  year  the  epithet  of 
"mean"  was  attached  to  his  pen;  for  it,  later,  was 
substituted  "venal."  With  Dennis  he  had  his  place  in 
the  '  Dunciad.'  Pope's  pretext  was  a  pretended  perpe- 
tration of  acts  against  himself  personally.  These,  it  is 
almost  needless  to  say,  Gildon  never  committed.  His 
real  offence  was  his  friendship  with  Dennis,  and  his 
agreement  with  that  critic  in  his  low  estimate  of  Pope's 
productions. 

Gildon  put  the  climax  on  one  or  two  previous  at- 
tacks by  the  references  he  both  made  and  failed  to 
make  in  a  work  entitled  '  The  Complete  Art  of  Poetry.' 
This  appeared  in  1718.  In  the  introduction  to  it  he 
discussed  the  two  versions  of  the  '  Iliad, '  so  far  as  they 
were  then  before  the  public.     He   represented  Will's 

1  For  example,  see  '  Complete  Art  of  Poetry, '  vol.  i.  p.  185. 

275 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

coffee-house  as  favoring  Pope's  translation,  and  But- 
ton's as  favoring  Tickell's.  For  himself,  as  an  indiffer- 
ent and  impartial  person,  he  considered  that  the  latter 
author  had  entered  more  into  the  soul  of  Homer  and 
had  better  exhibited  his  masculine  strength  and  native 
simplicity ;  while  the  former  had  embellished  his  version 
with  softness  and  harmony.1  But  in  the  body  of  the 
work  he  called  it  "an  abominable  translation."2  He 
did  even  worse  than  this.  In  the  discussion  of  pastoral 
poetry  he  wounded  Pope  in  a  most  sensitive  part  by 
not  making  even  a  reference  to  that  which  he  had 
written.  As  if  this  were  not  enough,  he  exalted  Am- 
brose Philips  above  all  authors  of  this  kind  which 
later  times  had  produced.  He  was,  indeed,  the  only 
one  who  could  be  put  alongside  of  Theocritus  and 
Vergil.  All  tolerable  judges,  said  Gildon,  gave  him 
the  first  place  among  the  moderns.  Then  came  an 
allusion  to  Pope's  ironical  criticism  in  '  The  Guardian  ' 
of  his  rival's  pastoral  poetry.  "There  have  been," 
he  wrote,  "poor  and  malicious  endeavors  made  use  of 
to  ridicule  that  of  Mr.  Philips;  but  the  effect  was  so 
wretched  and  the  malice  so  visible,  that  they  are  already 
dead  and  therefore  not  worth  our  notice."  3  No  student 
of  Pope's  life  and  writings  needs  to  be  told  that  these 
are  words  which  would  never  cease  to  rankle  in  the 
poet's  mind. 

The  first  of  these  three  writers  to  take  the  field  was 
Rymer.  He  had  no  special  spite  against  Shakespeare ; 
no  more  against  him  at  least  than  he  had  against  his 

1  Complete  Art  of  Poetry,  vol.  i.  p.  xii.  2  Ibid.  p.  185. 

8  Ibid.  pp.  157  and  161. 

276 


SEVENTEENTH-CENTUR Y  CONTROVERSIES 

contemporaries.  The  censure  in  his  volume  upon  the 
tragedies  of  the  previous  age  had  fallen  almost  exclu- 
sively upon  works  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  He  had 
spent  so  much  time  in  demolishing  these  that  he  had 
left  himself  no  space  for  other  authors.  He  therefore 
deferred  to  a  future  day  the  remarks  on  '  Othello  ' 
which  he  had  been  intending  to  make.  Years  passed, 
but  the  promised  criticism  did  not  appear.  In  the 
mean  time  the  reputation  of  Fletcher  was  waning,  while 
that  of  Shakespeare  was  waxing.  At  last  Rymer  broke 
his  long  silence.  It  may  be  that  he  fancied  that  the 
fading  attractions  of  the  two  brother  dramatists  was  due 
to  his  efforts  in  expounding  the  principles  of  true  art, 
and  that  the  further  duty  now  devolved  upon  him  to 
crush  the  pretensions  of  the  worthless  playwright  whose 
repute  was  steadily  rising.  At  any  rate,  at  the  end 
of  1692,  —  about  fourteen  years  after  the  appearance  of 
the  previous  work,  —  he  came  out  with  a  treatise  on 
tragedy,  containing  reflections  upon  Shakespeare  and 
other  practitioners  for  the  stage.  It  was  preceded  by 
so-called  second  editions  of  his  first  essay  and  of  his 
'Edgar.'  These  consisted  in  both  cases  of  unsold 
copies,  to  which  new  title-pages  had  been  prefixed. 
Much  of  the  new  work  was  given  up  to  comment  and 
information  which  had  no  real  connection  with  the  sub- 
ject. It  was  lugged  in  to  exhibit  Rymer's  learning, 
and  not  unfrequently  exhibits  his  lack  of  it.  But  when 
he  settles  down  to  his  proper  business,  his  treatise  has 
a  good  deal  of  that  sort  of  interest  which  the  exertions 
of  a  venomous  and  vigorous  mediocrity  are  often  ca- 
pable of  imparting.     If  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  had  not 

277 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

previously  fared  well  at  his  bands,  Shakespeare  was  a 
still  greater  sufferer.  If  any  one  has  become  surfeited 
with  the  prevalent  praise  of  the  great  dramatist,  he  can 
experience  a  delightful  satisfaction  in  reading  the  genial 
views  expressed  about  him  by  a  writer  regarded  by 
many  in  his  own  time  as  one  of  its  foremost  critics. 

To  two  plays,  both  then  exceedingly  popular,  and 
both  left  unaltered,  Rymer  devoted  himself  in  particu- 
lar. These  were  '  Othello '  and  '  Julius  Caesar.'  What 
is  said  of  them  may  be  summed  up  briefly.  The  fable 
of  the  former,  we  are  told,  is  improbable  and  absurd, 
the  characters  are  unnatural  and  improper,  the  thoughts 
and  their  expression  are  of  a  piece  with  the  charac- 
ters. l  "  In  the  neighing  of  an  horse,  or  in  the  growling 
of  a  mastiff,"  he  remarks,  "there  is  a  meaning,  there 
is  as  lively  expression,  and,  may  I  say,  more  humanity, 
than  many  times  in  the  tragical  flights  of  Shake- 
speare."2 In  another  place  he  speaks  of  "a  long  rabble 
of  Jack-puclden  farce  betwixt  Iago  and  Desdemona, 
that  runs  on  with  all  the  little  plays,  jingle  and  trash 
below  the  patience  of  any  country  kitchen-maid  with 
her  sweet-heart."3  This  heroine  does  not,  indeed,  meet 
with  much  favor  at  the  critic's  hands.  "No  woman," 
he  says,  "bred  out  of  a  pig-sty,  could  talk  so  meanly."4 
He  indeed  concedes  that  in  the  play  there  is  "some 
burlesque,  some  humor  and  ramble  of  comical  wit,  some 
shew  and  some  mimicry  to  divert  the  spectators;  but  the 
tragical  part  is  plainly  none  other  than  a  bloody  farce 
without  salt   or  savor."     Naturally  he  was  pained  at 

i  Short  View  of  Tragedy,  p.  92.  2  Ibid.  p.  96. 

3  Ibid.  p.  110.  *  Ibid.  p.  131. 

278 


SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY  CONTROVERSIES 

the  corrupting  effect  of  such  performances  upon  both 
taste  and  manners.  "  What  can  remain  with  the  audi- 
ence," he  says,  "to  carry  home  with  them  from  this 
sort  of  poetry  for  their  use  and  edification  ?  How  can 
it  work  unless  (instead  of  settling  the  mind  and  purg- 
ing our  passions)  to  delude  our  senses,  disorder  our 
thoughts,  addle  our  brain,  pervert  our  affections,  hare 
our  imaginations,  corrupt  our  appetite,  and  fill  our  head 
with  vanity,  confusion,  Tintamarre  and  jingle-jangle 
beyond  what  all  the  parish  clerks  of  London,  with  their 
Old  Testament  farces  and  interludes  in  Richard  the 
Second's  time,  could  ever  pretend  to?"1 

So  much  for,  '  Othello.'  '  Julius  Cassar '  came  off  no 
better.  Shakespeare,  we  are  told,  had  no  business  to 
deal  with  real  events.  His  head  "  was  full  of  villainous 
unnatural  images,  and  history  has  only  furnished  him 
with  great  names,  thereby  to  recommend  them  to  the 
world."2  "Never  any  poet,"  he  says  elsewhere,  "so 
boldly  and  so  bare-faced  flounced  along  from  contra- 
diction to  contradiction."3  Naturally  his  disregard 
of  what  Rymer  deemed  decorum  was  unpardonable. 
"One  would  not  talk  of  rules,"  he  remarks,  "or  what 
is  regular  with  Shakespeare  or  any  followers  in  the 
gang  of  the  strolling  fraternity."4  He  does  not  there- 
fore wonder  that  the  theatre  grows  corrupt  and  scanda- 
lous, or  that  poetry  is  sunk  from  its  ancient  reputation 
and  dignity  to  the  utmost  contempt  and  derision  "  when 
some  senseless  trifling  tale  as  that  of  '  Othello,'  or  some 
mangled,  abused,  undigested,  interlarded  history  "  —  by 

1  Short  View  of  Tragedy,    p.  146.  2  Ibid.  p.  148. 

3  Ibid.  p.  151.  *  Ibid.  p.  161. 

279 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

which  he  means  '  Julius  Csesar '  —  "on  our  stage  im- 
piously assumes  the  sacred  name  of  tragedy."1  We 
are  indeed  assured  by  Rymer  that  Shakespeare's  genius 
lay  in  comedy  and  humor  alone.  "In  tragedy,"  it 
is  added,  "he  appears  quite  out  of  his  element.  His 
brains  are  turned,  he  raves  and  rambles  without  any 
coherence,  any  spark  of  reason,  or  any  rule  to  control 
him  or  set  bounds  to  his  frenzy."2  This  last  sentence 
is  so  true  a  picture  of  Rymer  himself  that  it  would 
have  been  an  injustice  to  him  personally  not  to  have 
quoted  it  in  its  entirety;  but  to  appreciate  fully  how 
thoroughly  descriptive  it  is  of  the  man,  one  must  read 
the  whole  book. 

One  further  sentence  in  this  work  is  worth  reproduc- 
ing, not  so  much  as  an  exhibition  of  its  author's  spirit 
and  critical  acumen  as  for  the  infinite  satisfaction  it 
was  later  to  afford  Voltaire.  Rymer,  who  seemed  to 
have  as  much  anxiety  to  display  his  incapacity  as  others 
have  to  hide  theirs,  had  commented  upon  some  extracts 
he  had  made  from  '  Othello,'  for  no  other  purpose, 
apparently,  than  to  furnish  convincing  evidence  of  his 
utter  lack  of  literary  appreciation.  To  one  passage  he 
appended  a  remark  upon  its  author.  "  There  is  not  a 
monkey,"  it  ran,  "but  understands  nature  better;  not  a 
pug  in  Barbary  that  has  not  a  truer  taste  of  things."3 
All  this  is  entertaining;  but  one  would  gain  a  most 
erroneous  impression  of  the  facts,  were  he  to  take  the 
sentences  which  have  been  cited  as  the  general,  or  even 
a  general,  opinion  prevailing  among  critics  at  the  time 

1  Short  View  of  Tragedy,  p.  164. 

2  Ibid.  p.  156.  3  jbid.  p>  124 

280 


SE VENTEENTII-CENTUR Y  CONTROVERSIES 

they  appeared.  The  truth  is  that  these  tirades,  so  far 
from  representing  the  sentiments  of  any  party,  even  the 
very  smallest,  are  nothing  but  the  views  of  scattered  in- 
dividuals ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  as  large  a  num- 
ber of  those  holding  not  unlike  opinions  exist  now  as 
did  then.  The  bitterness  Rymer  displayed  was  mainly 
due  to  the  exceeding  popularity  of  the  poet  he  affected 
to  despise.  The  censurer  was  stung  by  the  general  pref- 
erence. In  one  place  he  refers  sarcastically  to  the 
"  unimitable  ':  Shakespeare,  just  as  Voltaire  subse- 
quently delighted  to  call  him  the  "  divine ;"  both  ad- 
jectives being  epithets  even  then  constantly  applied  to 
the  dramatist.-  The  chapter  on  '  Othello  '  bears  unwill- 
ing witness  to  the  favor  with  which  that  play  was 
regarded.  "  From  all  the  tragedies  acted  on  our  Eng- 
lish stage,"  it  begins,  "'Othello'  is  said  to  bear  the 
bell  away."  1  While  criticising  ferociously  the  inter- 
view between  Iago  and  Othello,  in  which  the  former 
by  shrugs  and  suggestions  and  insinuations  arouses  the 
jealous  feelings  of  the  latter,  Rymer  is  compelled  to  de- 
scribe it  as  being  in  common  opinion  "the  top  scene, 
the  scene  that  raises  Othello  above  all  other  tragedies 
on  our  theatres."2  These  are  testimonies  of  an  enemy 
which  cannot  be  gainsaid. 

Rymer  had  had  no  occasion  to  felicitate  himself  upon 
the  success  which  had  attended  his  remarks  on  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher.  This  treatise,  from  its  unsold 
copies  appearing  fourteen  years  later  as  a  second  edi- 
tion, had  plainly  met  with  but  a  small  sale.  His  own 
words  further  imply  that  his  views  had  encountered  a 

1  Short  View  of  Tragedy,  p.  80.  2  Ibid.  p.  lid 

281 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

good  deal  of  censure.  In  the  epistle  dedicating  his 
second  volume  to  the  Earl  of  Dorset,  he  tells  us  that 
when  years  before  he  had  tried  the  public  with  observa- 
tions concerning  the  stage,  it  was  principally  the  counte- 
nance of  that  nobleman  which  had  buoyed  him  up  and 
supported  a  righteous  cause  against  the  prejudice  and 
corruption  then  reigning.  It  was  in  behalf  of  the  sacred 
principles  of  the  pure  doctrine  of  poetry  established  by 
the  primitive  fathers,  such  as  Aristotle  and  Horace, 
that  he  once  again  took  the  field  and  sallied  forth  to 
expose  the  wretchedness  of  Shakespeare's  work.  Such 
was  his  repute  for  learning  with  all,  and  for  critical 
sagacity  with  some,  that  the  announcement  of  his  in- 
tention awakened  considerable  interest.  To  use  the 
language  of  the  a^e,  his  volume  was  awaited  by  the 
ingenious  with  much  impatience. 

To  the  existence  of  this  expectation  we  have  direct 
contemporary  evidence.  The  French  refugee,  Motteux, 
now  best  known  to  us  by  his  translations  of  Rabelais  and 
Cervantes,  had  a  short  time  before  started  a  monthly 
miscellany,  somewhat  of  the  modern  magazine  nature, 
under  the  title  of  '  The  Gentleman's  Journal.'  It  was 
the  first  work  of  its  particular  kind  in  our  tongue. 
Along  with  its  other  contents  in  verse  and  prose,  it 
furnished  a  certain  amount  of  literary  gossip  in  regard 
to  books  soon  to  be  published  and  plays  soon  to  be  pro- 
duced. In  the  number  for  October,  1692,  it  announced 
that  Mr.  Rhymer  —  so  the  name  was  spelled  —  "  will 
shortly  oblige  the  world  with  some  more  of  his  nice  and 
judicious  criticism  on  some  of  our  dramatic  writings." 
In  the  number  for  the  following  December  he  recorded 

282 


SE  VENTEENTH-CENTUR  Y   CONTR 0  VERSIES 

its  appearance.  Motteux,  unlike  St.  Evremond,  had 
mastered  the  English  language.  He  had  come  to  know 
and  to  admire  Shakespeare.  Rymer's  criticism  did  not 
therefore  strike  him  as  being  so  nice  and  judicious  as 
he  had  anticipated,  though  he  took  care  to  express  his 
opinion  in  very  guarded  terms.  "The  ingenious,"  he 
wrote  of  the  work,  "are  somewhat  divided  about  some 
remarks  in  it,  though  they  concur  with  Mr.  Rhymer  in 
many  things,  and  generally  acknowledge  that  he  dis- 
covers a  great  deal  of  learning."  For  this  reason  he 
refrained  from  saying  anything  more  of  the  volume. 
He  concluded  his  observations,  however,  with  a  sug- 
gestive quotation  from  Quintilian  about  the  necessity 
of  using  modesty  and  circumspection  in  the  judgment 
of  great  authors,  lest  that  accident  which  happens  to 
so  many  should  befall  the  critic  of  condemning  what  he 
fails  to  understand.  This  was  delightfully  and  doubt- 
less intentionally  vague.  It  could  refer  to  any  criticism 
Motteux  might  pass  upon  Rymer;  it  was  meant  to  refer 
to  Rymer's  criticism  of  Shakespeare. 

Limited  as  are  our  means  of  ascertaining  the  general 
critical  opinion  of  the  seventeenth  century,  thereby 
often  giving  undue  weight  to  what  little  accidentally 
reaches  us,  sufficient  evidence  exists  to  make  it  cer- 
tain that  whatever  opposition  Rymer's  first  volume  had 
encountered  was  far  exceeded  by  that  which  waited 
upon  the  second.  Dryden,  whom  in  it  he  had  once 
more  flattered,  expressed  his  dissent  and,  indeed,  his 
disgust.  These  feelings  appear  in  an  undated  letter 
written  by  him  to  Dennis,  which  was  published  by  his 
correspondent  —  evidently  with  his  own   consent  —  in 

283 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

1696.  His  words  are  an  early  exemplification  of  the 
attitude  which  we  shall  see  came  to  be  taken  in  regard 
to  Shakespeare  by  large  numbers  throughout  the  whole 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  They  are  further  interesting 
for  the  deference  which  he  continued  to  pay  to  R}-mer 
himself  and  to  his  pedantic  advocacy  of  the  principles 
of  art.  In  this  place,  however,  they  are  of  importance 
mainly  because  of  the  evidence  they  furnish  as  to 
the  ill  fortune  which  had  waited  upon  this  venture. 
"We  know,"  wrote  Dryden,  "in  spite  of  Mr.  Rymer, 
that  genius  alone  is  a  greater  virtue  (if  I  may  so  call 
it)  than  all  other  qualifications  put  together.  You  see 
what  success  this  learned  critic  has  found  in  the  world 
after  his  blaspheming  Shakespeare.  Almost  all  the 
faults  which  he  has  discovered  are  truly  there;  yet 
who  will  read  Mr.  Rymer,  or  not  read  Shakespeare? 
For  my  own  part,  I  reverence  Mr.  Rymer's  learning, 
but  I  detest  his  ill-nature  and  his  arrogance.  I  indeed, 
and  such  as  I,  have  reason  to  be  afraid  of  him,  but 
Shakespeare  has  not." 

It  is  clear,  indeed,  that  Rymer's  attack  met  with  but 
little  favor.  It 'naturally  did  Shakespeare  no  harm;  it 
did  its  author  a  good  deal.  Replies  to  it  came  forth  at 
once;  and  replies,  too,  from  men  who  in  a  measure 
sympathized  with  its  views.  Dennis  intended  to  an- 
swer all  its  points;  but  he  never  went  farther  than  a 
treatise,  published  soon  after,  entitled  '  The  Impartial 
Critic'  This  dealt,  however,  only  with  certain  opin- 
ions of  Rymer  about  the  drama,  —  especially  about  the 
chorus,  —  and  did  not  concern  itself  with  those  he  had 
expressed  about  the  dramatist.     But  while  controvert- 

284 


SE VENTEENTII-CENTUR Y  CONTRO  VERSIES 

ing  the  views  of  his  opponent,  he  spoke  of  him  respect- 
fully.    Not  so  Gildon,  who  was  the  next  to  take  np 
the  discussion.     In  this  same  year  he  published  what  he 
called  a  vindication  of  Shakespeare  in  a  letter  addressed 
to  Dryden.     He  set  out  with  the  avowed  intention  of 
treating  Ryiner  as  Iiymer  had  treated  Shakespeare.     He 
pretty  faithfully  kept  his  word.     He  accused   him   of 
plagiarism,    dulness,    conceit,    affectation   of   learning, 
and  all  the  other  impolite  phrases  which  usually  dis- 
tinguish  the   controversies   of    what   is    termed    polite 
literature,  —  not    forgetting,    among   other   things,    to 
bring   in   the  comparison   to  a   pug   of   Barbary.     He 
made  merry,  in  particular,  with  the  scheme  of  a  play 
suggested  by  the  '  Persse  '  of  iEschylus,  which  the  assail- 
ant of  Shakespeare  had  drawn  up  in  full  and  published 
in  his  volume.     It  was  to  be  entitled  '  The  Invincible 
Armado. '     The  subject  outlined  was  one  which  Rymer 
expressed  a  desire  that  Dryden  would  try  to  fill  up.     If 
that  poet  did  so,  he  was  confident  that  the  imitation  of 
iEsehylus,  thus  produced,  would,  to  use  his  own  pecu- 
liar language,   "pit,   box,  and  gallery,  far  beyond  any- 
thing now  in  possession  of  the  stage,  however  wrought 
up  by  the  unimitable    Shakespeare."     It  was   easy  to 
turn  this  whole  project  into  ridicule ;  for  the  plot  Rymer 
had  sketched  furnished  as  convincing  proof  of  his  in- 
ability to  plan  a  play  as  his  '  Edgar  '  had  furnished  of 
his  inability  to  write  one. 

But  in  this  case  both  the  criticiser  and  the  man  criti- 
cised were  too  alike  in  their  nature  to  be  kept  perma- 
nently apart.  There  are  few  closer  ties  which  bind 
men  to  each  other   than  the  possession  of  a  common 

285 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

pedantry.  In  1710  Gildon  contributed  two  essays  to 
a  volume  containing  the  poems  of  Shakespeare  which 
Curll  had  published  as  a  supplement  to  Rowe's  edi- 
tion of  the  previous  year.  In  the  one  upon  the  art, 
rise,  and  progress  of  the  stage,  he  set  out  to  lay  down 
for  the  reader  such  principles  as  would  enable  him  to 
distinguish  the  errors  of  the  dramatist  from  his  beauties. 
These,  he  tells  us,  were  too  much  and  too  unjustly  con- 
founded by  the  foolish  bigotry  of  his  blind  and  partial 
adorers.  Like  Dennis,  he  was  anxious  that  readers 
should  not  be  so  captivated  by  the  author  that  they 
should  admire  what  they  ought  to  condemn.  So  he 
kindly  undertook  to  open  their  eyes.  They  were  in 
the  habit  of  setting  Shakespeare  above  the  ancients. 
A  heresy  of  this  sort  Gildon,  a  devout  worshipper  of 
Sophocles  and  Euripides,  could  by  no  means  suffer  to 
go  unrebuked.  As  a  friend  of  the  modern  dramatist 
he  pointed  out  the  extreme  danger  of  his  being  in 
future  unjustly  decried  as  a  result  of  the  reaction  from 
this  undue  exaltation.  He  was  led,  in  consequence,  to 
explain  and  apologize  for  that  attack  to  which  he  had 
himself  virulently  replied.  "This  unaccountable  big- 
otry of  the  town  to  the  very  errors  of  Shakespeare," 
he  wrote,  "was  the  occasion  of  Mr.  Rymer's  criticisms, 
and  drove  him  as  far  into  the  contrary  extreme."  Later 
he  paid  another  and  higher  tribute  to  the  merits  of  the 
man  he  had  once  assailed. 

The  views  of  men  like  these  are  of  no  special  value 
in  themselves.  They  are,  however,  of  a  good  deal  of 
importance  in  the  history  of  opinion.  As  testimony 
wrung  from  witnesses,  in  no  instance  partial,  in  one 

286 


SE VENTEENTH-CENTUR Y   CONTROVERSIES 

actively  hostile,  they  furnish  evidence,  that  cannot  be 
impeached,  of  the  hold  which  Shakespeare  had  at  that 
time  gained  over  the  great  body  of  his  countrymen.  The 
dissent  that  undoubtedly  existed  did  not  dare  to  be  too 
outspoken.  The  passages  which  have  been  cited  show 
that  the  expression  of  disparaging  judgments  about  the 
dramatist  himself  or  about  his  work  was  held  in  check 
by  a  general  belief  in  his  greatness,  too  firmly  rooted  to 
be  unsettled  and  too  powerful  to  be  defied.  It  was  this 
widespread  and  increasing  admiration  that  prompted 
the  special  study  of  his  writings  which  then  began  to  be 
undertaken.  The  second  essay  of  Gildon  in  this  supple- 
mental volume  to  Rowe's  edition  consisted  of  critical 
remarks  on  the  various  plays.  It  is  the  first  of  a  long 
line  of  comments  and  commentaries  of  the  same  general 
character,  and  is  therefore  of  a  certain  historic  interest. 
They  are  what  might  be  expected  from  a  man  whose 
acquisition  of  what  is  called  liberal  education  has  had 
the  not  unexampled  result  of  making  him  illiberal  in 
his  opinions.  Yet  it  is  right  to  say  of  them  that  if  we 
are  frequently  entertained  by  the  absurdity  of  his  views, 
we  are  also  occasionally  struck  by  their  good  sense. 
He  condemned  most  of  the  alterations  to  wdiich  Shake- 
speare's plays  had  been  then  subjected.  He  criticised 
in  particular  at  some  length  and  with  just  severity 
D'Avenant's  and  Dryden's  version  of  'The  Tempest,' 
which  at  this  time  had  supplanted  the  original. 

Gildon  is  very  far,  indeed,  from  being  an  illuminating 
guide;  but  he  is  no  such  contemptible  character  as 
Pope's  references  to  him  would  lead  us  to  suppose,  and 
as,  it  must   be   added,  his    own  utterances  sometimes 

287 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

impel  one  to  infer.  His  occasional  pretentiousness 
makes  him  peculiarly  offensive ;  his  seeming  assumption 
that  when  he  has  pronounced  an  opinion,  the  last  con- 
clusions of  the  human  intellect  have  been  reached.  He 
further  exemplified  too  constantly  what  he  condemned. 
An  abuser  of  poetasters,  he  was  not  only  one  himself, 
but  he  reserved  his  praise  for  writers  not  much  above 
their  grade.  Not  satisfied  with  regarding  Dennis  as  a 
great  critic,  he  made  him  out  also  "a  poet  of  the  first 
magnitude."1  His  works  abound  with  fulsome  lauda- 
tions of  the  writings  of  the  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire, 
especially  of  his  '  Essay  on  Poetry.'  This  very  respect- 
able but  long-forgotten  production  he  quoted  constantly 
and  as  reverently  as  if  it  were  divinely  inspired.  A  cen- 
surer  of  other  alterers  of  Shakespeare,  he  perpetrated  a 
peculiarly  wretched  one  himself,  —  a  version  of  '  Meas- 
ure for  Measure, '  which  was  brought  out  in  1700.  This 
last  statement  goes  on  the  supposition  that  he  wrote  the 
pieces  universally  attributed  to  him;  for  his  name  does 
not  appear  on  the  title-page  of  a  single  one  of  the  five 
plays  of  which  he  is  the  reputed  author. 

Attacks  on  Shakespeare  of  the  coarse  nature  which 
Rymer's  treatise  exhibits  were  never  made  again. 
There  is,  indeed,  so  far  as  I  know,  but  a  single  repeti- 
tion of  this  style  of  wholesale  and  elaborate  deprecia- 
tion to  be  found  in  the  whole  of  the  century  which 
followed.  Yet,  as  it  was  the  work  of  a  woman,  and 
furthermore  of  a  woman  born  in  America,  it  may  be 
appropriate  to  give  here  a  short  account  of  the  critic 
and  her  criticism.     She  was  the  daughter  of  Col.  James 

1  Complete  Art  of  Poetry,  vol.  i.  p.  185. 
288 


SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY  CONTROVERSIES 

Ramsay,  lieutenant-governor   of   New   York,  and    was 
born  in  1720.     In   America  she  remained  until  1735, 
when  she  went  to  London.     There,  owing  to  circum- 
stances, she  was  soon  under  the  necessity  of  maintain- 
ing herself   by  her  own   exertions.     In   the  course   of 
events  she  married  a  gentleman  named  Lennox.     This 
ought  to  have  transferred  from  her  own  shoulders  the 
burden  of  support.     Apparently  it  did  not.     Mr.  Len- 
nox seems  to  have  been  an  inoffensive  man,  and  may 
have  been  a  particularly  worthy  one;  but  history  has 
condescended  to  record  of  him  no  other  achievement 
than  his  becoming   the  husband  of   Margaret  Ramsay. 
She  herself  was  a  very  miscellaneous  writer.     She  pro- 
duced poems,  plays,  and  pastorals,  executed  numberless 
translations  from  the  French,  edited  a  magazine,  and 
was  the  author  of  several  long-forgotten  novels ;  though 
it  is  perhaps  an  abuse  of  language  to  speak  of  that  as 
having  been  forgotten  which  was  never  much  remem- 
bered.    To  this  last  statement  there  is  a  single  excep- 
tion.    In  1752  she  published  a  story,   in  imitation  of 
the   great  work   of   Cervantes,  entitled   '  The    Female 
Quixote,  or  the  Adventures  of   Arabella.'     It  was  a 
satire  upon  the  interminable  romances  which  had  been 
the  favorite  literature  of  the  two  or  three  generations 
preceding.     This  production,  which  no  one  would  read 
now  save  from  a  sense  of  duty,   was  fairly  successful 
then.     After  a  fashion  it  has  preserved  her  name  in  lit- 
erary history.     Occasionally  it  is  spoken  of  even  now  as 
a  work  of  genius  by  those  who  have  not  read  it. 

It  was  during  the   years  1753  and  1754  that  Mrs. 
Lennox  brought  out  a  work   of  a   new   kind   entitled 
19  289 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

*  Shakespeare  Illustrated,  or  the  Novels  and  Histories, 
on  which  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare  are  Founded,  col- 
lected and  translated  from  the  Original  Authors  with 
Critical  Remarks. '  It  consisted  of  three  volumes  and  was 
dedicated  to  the  Earl  of  Orrery.  This  dedication  was 
written  by  her  personal  friend,  Dr.  Johnson,  who  has  in 
fact  been  accused  of  responsibility  for  some  of  the  criti- 
cism. The  collection  she  made  of  sources  is  the  first  of  a 
number  of  similar  ones,  which  owe  their  existence  purely 
to  the  interest  inspired  by  the  writings  of  the  dramatist. 
It  therefore  serves  the  double  purpose  of  exemplifying 
the  growth  of  the  poet's  reputation  and  the  way  in 
which  it  was  occasionally  assailed.  The  information  it 
furnished,  though  far  from  complete  and  long  since 
superseded,  was  in  general  sufficiently  satisfactory  so 
far  as  it  went.  It  was  the  critical  observations  with 
which  the  work  was  supplied,  that  have  given  it  what- 
ever interest  or  distinction  it  now  possesses.  Rymer  had 
led  the  way  for  them  by  asserting  that  '  Othello '  had 
been  altered  from  the  original  of  Cinthio  in  several 
particulars,  but  always  for  the  worse.1  In  this  style 
of  criticism  Mrs.  Lennox  left  her  predecessor  far  behind. 
She  made  it  clear  that  in  his  adaptations  from  previous 
writers  Shakespeare  almost  invariably  fell  below  them. 
Whatever  he  touched  he  deformed.  Anything  that 
was  particularly  good  in  what  he  borrowed  he  con- 
trived to  make  bad ;  everything  that  was  bad  he  changed 
to  worse.  He  added  to  the  events  in  the  stories,  upon 
which  he  founded  his  plays,  useless  incidents,  unneces- 
sary characters,  and  absurd  and  improbable  intrigues. 

1  Short  View  of  Tragedy,  p.  87. 
290 


SE  VENTEENTH-  CENTUR  Y  CONTR 0  VER SIES 

Even  when  we  admire  the  beauty  of  any  new  passage 
he  introduced,  we  are  usually  struck  by  its  inappro- 
priateness.  Occasionally  she  relented;  the  tenderness 
of  the  woman  prevailed  over  the  severity  of  the  judge. 
In  a  few  instances  guarded  praise  was  given  the  drama- 
tist for  improvement  in  certain  details.  Still,  as  a  gen- 
eral rule,  the  epithets  most  frequently  employed  to 
describe  the  variations  made  by  him  from  his  originals 
were  the  adjectives  "absurd"  and  "ridiculous." 

The  work  was  one  of  which  a  good  deal  of  the  con- 
temporary periodical  criticism  spoke  highly,  —  especially 
in  the  '  Gentleman's  Magazine,'  where  Johnson  pos- 
sessed influence.  It  enabled  the  reader,  he  was  told,  to 
make  a  just  estimate  of  Shakespeare's  merit,  to  com- 
prehend his  resources  and  detect  his  faults.  Above  all, 
it  showed  clearly  that  he  did  not  deserve  the  venera- 
tion with  which  he  had  been  and  still  continued  to  be 
regarded.  The  many  beauties  of  which  he  had  been 
supposed  to  be  the  originator  had  been  restored  by  the 
authoress  to  those  from  whom  they  had  been  borrowed. 
The  plagiarist  stood  exposed.1  But  outside  of  period- 
ical criticism,  the  attitude  taken  and  the  views  expressed 
in  the  work  met  with  but  scant  favor.  It  reacted,  in- 
deed, injuriously  at  a  later  period  upon  Mrs.  Lennox's 
own  literary  undertakings.  The  ill-success  of  her  play 
of  ;  The  Sister, '  which  was  brought  out  at  Covent  Gar- 
den in  February,  1770,  but  withdrawn  after  the  first 
night,  was  attributed  by  some  to  the  indignation  and 
resentment  which   her   remarks  upon  Shakespeare  had 

1  Gentleman's  Magazine,  vol.  xxiii.,  June,  1753.  See  also  vol.  xxiv. 
pp.  233,  311. 

291 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

aroused.  Whether  this  be  true  or  not,  the  publication 
of  her  work  furnishes  another  exemplification  of  a  mel- 
ancholy fact  which,  the  longer  we  live,  forces  itself 
more  persistently  upon  our  observation.  There  is  noth- 
ing more  to  be  deplored  in  the  fortunes  of  individuals 
than  the  hard  lot  that  befalls  some  in  having  been  born 
at  the  wrong  time  or  in  the  wrong  country.  People  are 
constantly  met  with  now  who  really  belong  to  the  tenth 
century,  and  would  have  made  a  fitting  and  delightful 
acquisition  to  the  society  of  that  epoch.  Its  prevailing 
ideas  would  have  been  their  ideas.  Its  way  of  looking  at 
things  would  have  been  their  way.  Its  partialities  and 
prejudices,  its  particular  likes  and  dislikes  would  have 
been  theirs  also.  They  are  simply  unfortunate  in  hav- 
ing been  misplaced  into  a  wholly  unsuitable  time. 
Such  was  the  unhappy  fate  of  Mrs.  Lennox  in  regard 
to  Shakespeare.  She  missed  her  century.  Had  she 
flourished  in  the  period  immediately  following  the 
Restoration,  she  would  have  found  herself  in  a  far  more 
congenial  atmosphere.  She  would  have  been  enrolled 
as  a  distinguished  figure  in  a  set  which  would  have  sym- 
pathized with  her  opinions  and  exalted  her  uncommon 
learning  and  critical  acumen.  Had  she  in  addition  be- 
come Mrs.  Rymer,  the  conjunction  of  these  two  stars, 
shooting  madly  from  their  spheres  in  the  Shakespearean 
firmament,  would  have  attracted  the  attention  of  ob- 
servers for  all  time. 


292 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ALTERATIONS   OF   SHAKESPEARE'S   PLAYS 

There  is  a  well-known  remark  of  Evelyn  in  his 
diary  under  the  date  of  November  26,  1661.  He  had 
just  attended  a  performance  of  '  Hamlet.'  "  But  now/' 
was  his  comment,  "  the  old  plays  begin 1  to  disgust  this 
refined  age,  since  his  majesty's  being  so  long  abroad." 
These  words  mark  the  opening  of  the  more  than  hun- 
dred years'  war  which  Shakespeare  was  to  carry  on 
with  the  French  theatre.  At  this  early  period  the 
torrent  of  lewdness  and  profligacy,  which  Evelyn  was 
later  to  deplore  so  frequently,  had  not  yet  burst  forth 
with  any  violence.  Decency  was  on  the  point  of  de- 
parting from  the  stage,  but  so  far  had  not  taken  her 
flight.  It  was  not,  therefore,  the  spirit  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan drama,  alien  as  it  was  to  that  of  the  Restoration 
epoch,  which  was  beginning  to  make  its  plays  seem  dis- 
tasteful.^ It  was  because  of  their  supposed  deficiencies 
in  those  characteristics  which  constitute  true  art. 

Of  these  a  full  account  has  been  given  in  the  preced- 
ing pages.  We  have  seen  that  a  number  of  rules  were 
laid  down  for  the  conduct  of  the  playwright,  based  not 
upon  how  men  really  thought  and  felt  and  acted,  but 

1  Began  in  printed  text.  If  written  by  Evelyn  at  the  time,  he  must 
have  intended  begin ;  if  began  was  his  word,  the  remark  must  have 
been  a  later  addition  to  the  diary. 

293 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

how  they  ought  to  think  and  feel  and  act,  in  order  to 
preserve  poetic  decorum.  The  stage  was  to  anticipate 
Mr.  Turveydrop  and  become  a  model  of  deportment. 
The  vogue  of  these  rules  became  increasingly  prevalent 
after  the  eighteenth  century  had  opened.  The  ten- 
dency constantly  manifested  itself  then  to  strengthen 
the  rigor  of  the  laws  which  regulated  dramatic  compo- 
sition. Naturally  eighteenth-century  plays  conformed 
to  the  canons  proclaimed  by  eighteenth-century  critics. 
A  large  proportion  of  the  tragedies  of  that  time  were 
absolutely  faultless  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  clas- 
sical school.  They  were  what  was  called  regular. 
They  observed  the  unities.  They  never  outraged  the 
feelings  by  pandering  to  that  depraved  taste  which 
longed  for  occasional  flashes  of  enjoyment  to  light 
up  the  atmosphere  of  gloom  in  which  they  were  envel- 
oped. In  many  instances  they  carefully  despatched  the 
destined  victims  behind  the  scenes.  Some  of  these 
productions  were  the  work  of  able  men,  a  very  few  of 
them  of  men  possessed  of  no  slight  share  of  poetic  if 
not  of  dramatic  genius.  Nothing,  therefore,  is  so  con- 
spicuous about  the  cleverness  of  these  playwrights  as 
the  almost  invariable  success  with  which  it  enabled 
them  to  fail.  Stately  characters  were  brought  by  them 
upon  the  scene  whose  speeches  were  often  characterized 
by  elaborate  and  imposing  versification;  but  somehow 
they  seemed  to  lack  vitality.  It  was  the  form  of 
tragedy  they  possessed  without  its  spirit.  The  events 
werg_few;  the  words  describing  them  were  many.  The 
best  that  could  be  said  of  the  best  of  them  was  that 
they  avoided  gross   faults.     If   they  did  not   stir   the 

294 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

heart  of  the  spectator,  they  did  not  excite  his  laughter; 
and  in  no  case  could  fault  be  found  with  them  for  the 
violation  of  a  single  one  of  those  rules  which  by  the 
common  consent  of  critics  were  deemed  essential  to 
dramatic  propriety. 

It  was  this  last  characteristic  which  constituted  their 
great  recommendation  in  the  eyes  of  the  followers  of 
this  school.  Negative  virtues  were  raised  to  the  dig- 
nity of  positive  ones ;  if  not  so  in  theory,  they  were  in 
fact.  [To  be  free  from  faults  was  of  more  account  than 
to  be  possessed  of  merits;  and  instead  of  seeking  for 
the  latter,  writers  for  the  stage  were  sedulously  striving 
to  guard  against  the  former.  Nothing  of  permanent 
value  is  ever'  produced  by  such  methods;  no  interest 
long  attaches  to  any  work  of  any  sort  thus  brought  into 
being.  A  brake  on  a  wheel  is  often  a  useful  article; 
but  it  overrates  a  great  deal  its  own  importance  when  it 
fancies  itself  the  wheel  that  runs  the  vehicle,  still  more 
when  it  fancies  itself  the  motive  power  that  runs  the 
wheel.  It  was  the  concentration  of  the  care  and  thought 
of  the  playwrights  upon  the  observance  of  these  con- 
ventional rules  which  more  than  any  other  one  thing 
contributed  to  render  their  productions  tame  and  life- 
less. Tragedy  was  the  main  sufferer  by  this  practice : 
comedy  got  along  better.  Some  of  the  works  belonging 
to  the  former  chanced  occasionally  to  receive  for  a  time 
an  artificial  life  from  the  excellence  of  the  acting ;  but 
they  were  rarely  heard  of  later,  even  when  apparent  suc- 
cess had  crowned  their  original  representation.  This 
was  their  usual  fate ;  it  is  not  too  much  to  assert  that  it 
was  usually  their  merited  fate.     Even  the  best  of  them 

295 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

can  hardly  be  spoken  of  as  any  longer  really  known. 
To  most  men  of  the  present  day  the  tragic  stage  of  the 
eighteenth  century  is  an  undiscovered  country ;  and  in 
general  it  may  be  said  that  the  unwary  traveller  who  by 
any  chance  is  led  to  visit  its  confines  takes  precious 
good  care  never  to  return  to  them  again,  if  that  journey 
can  possibly  be  avoided. 

To  the  men  of  that  age,  however,  there  always  re- 
mained one  consolation.  The  result  of  their  efforts  might 
be  dreadful ;  but  still  it  was  art.  Upon  that  fact  they 
perpetually  felicitated  themselves.  To  us  the  artificial 
beauties,  if  they  can  be  termed  beauties,  which  were 
secured  by  their  methods,  seem  very  much  like  the 
rings  which  men  and  women  of  savage  nations  thrust 
through  their  lips  and  noses.  They  are  inconvenient  to 
the  owner  to  wear;  to  admire  them  requires  a  perverted 
taste  in  the  beholder.  But  not  so  felt  those  who  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Restoration  epoch  announced  that  at 
last  the  reign  of  taste  had  arrived.  To  some  of  them 
Shakespeare  was  peculiarly  offensive.  Certain  of  them 
were  so  repelled  by  his  assumed  lawlessness  that  they 
were  hardly  disposed  to  regard  him  as  worthy  of  con- 
sideration at  all.  This  was  particularly  true  of  the 
school  which  celebrated  Ben  Jonson  as  the  greatest 
writer  of  the  preceding  age  and  the  greatest  comic 
writer  of  all  time.  It  was  not  large  in  numbers,  but  it 
was  somewhat  vociferous;  and  as  there  belonged  to  it 
several  persons  of  social  and  literary  position,  it  exerted 
for  a  time  considerable  influence.  It  existed,  indeed, 
long  before  the  Restoration.  It  is  manifest,  also,  that 
Jonson  himself,  with  all  his  undoubted  admiration  for 

296 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

the  genius  of  his  friend,  was  not  entirely  exempt  from 
emotions  of  envy  at  the  high  estimate  in  which  he  was 
held,  and  did  not  refrain  from  exhibiting  what  he  doubt- 
less deemed  righteous  indignation  at  the  undeserved 
praise  which  was  bestowed  upon  Shakespeare  for  what 
were  in  his  eyes  manifest  defects.  It  was  inevitable 
that  sentiments  of  this  sort  should  be  echoed  more  or 
less ;  and  usually  more,  by  that  never  very  limited  body 
of  judges  who,  without  any  definite  views  of  their  own, 
have  to  an  almost  heroic  extent  the  courage  of  other 
people's  convictions. 

Unquestionably  there  were  even  at  this  early  period 
dissenters  from  the  general  tribute  of  admiration  which 
from  the  first  was  paid  to  Shakespeare,  though  com- 
paratively few  evidences  of  the  fact  have  come  down 
to  our  time.  We  can  find  the  feeling  indicated,  how- 
ever, in  the  words  of  a  writer  like  William  Cartwright 
of  Oxford  University,  who  died  in  16-43,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-two.  For  reasons  which  men  of  the  present  day 
find  it  difficult  to  comprehend,  he  was  regarded  and 
celebrated  by  his  contemporaries  as  a  person  of  extraor- 
dinary abilities.  The  view  is  certainly  not  borne  out 
by  the  very  respectable  plays  he  left  behind ;  for  he  was 
a  dramatist  before  he  became  a  divine.  Besides  these 
he  wrote  a  number  of  poems  in  which  he  was  usually 
successful  in  combining  brevity  with  tediousness.  Two 
of  them  were  upon  Fletcher.  Cartwright  was  one  of  the 
class  of  men  who  cannot  exalt  one  person  without  dis- 
paraging another.  He  accordingly  went  out  of  his  way 
to  give  us  a  specimen  of  his  critical  judgment  in  the 
following  lines :  — 

297 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

"  Shakespeare  to  thee  was  dull,  whose  best  jest  lies 
In  the  ladies'  questions  and  the  fool's  replies ; 
Old-fashioned  wit  which  walked  from  town  to  town 
In  turned  hose,  which  our  fathers  called  the  clown  ; 
Whose  wit  our  nice  times  would  obsceneness  call, 
And  which  made  bawdry  pass  for  comical : 
Nature  was  all  his  art,  thy  vein  was  free 
As  his,  but  without  his  scurrility." 

But  though  feelings  of  this  kind  existed  both  before 
and  after  the  Restoration,  we  should  be  led  into  a  gross 
error  if  we  supposed  that  they  existed  on  a  large  scale. 
That  small  number  who,  because  their  taste  differs 
from  that  of  the  majority,  enjoy  the  pleasing  consola- 
tion of  believing  that  it  is  much  better  than  that  of  the 
majority,  may  have  studiously  depreciated  Shakespeare ; 
but  they  never  seriously  affected  the  general  estimate 
of  his  reputation.  Much  more  numerous  and  much 
more  influential  was  the  body  of  those  who  attributed 
to  him  the  possession  of  great  excellences  mingled  with 
great  defects.  Theirs  was  an  attitude,  according  to 
their  own  opinion,  of  absolute  impartiality.  They  con- 
sequently spoke  of  him  in  a  tone  of  mingled  pity  and 
patronage.  It  could  not  be  denied  that  he  was  a  man 
of  vast  genius.  It  was  nevertheless  a  painful  fact  that 
the  barbarism  of  his  time  had  prevented  him  from  attain- 
ing to  those  heights  of  taste  upon  which  they  themselves 
were  complacently  perched.  They  pardoned,  though 
they  could  not  approve.  This  was  the  prevalent  utter- 
ance of  the  years  that  followed  immediately  upon  the 
return  of  Charles.  It  is  sometimes  expressed  kindly, 
sometimes  contemptuously.  But  whether  well  or  ill 
disposed,  it  never  neglected  the  duty  of  pointing  out 

298 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

the  faults  of  the  dramatist  and  of  holding  up  to  scorn 
those  who  denied  their  existence.  It  is  one  of  the 
revenges  produced  by  the  whirligig  of  time  that  the 
Restoration  period  is  now  regarded  as  having  degenerate 
taste,  because  it  held  that  the  taste  which  expressed  un- 
bounded admiration  of  Shakespeare  was  degenerate. 

It  was  their  recognition  of  his  excellences  in  various 
ways,  combined  with  their  perception  of  his  deficiences, 
which  led  men  to  set  about  those  alterations  of  his 
works  which  went  on  for  a  good  deal  more  than  a  hun- 
dred years  after  the  Restoration.  It  is  needless  to  add 
that  these  were  undertaken  ostensibly  in  the  interests  of 
art.  To  a  certain  extent  the  pretence  was  justified  by  the 
changes  made.  Efforts  were  put  forth  to  bring  the  plays 
as  far  as  possible  under  the  law  of  the  unities.  The 
comic  parts  were  usually  cut  out  of  the  serious  pieces. 
Low  characters  were  dropped.  To  this  aesthetic  motive 
was  frequently  added,  according  to  the  professions  of 
those  engaged  in  this  work,  reverence  for  Shakespeare 
himself.  It  was  their  regard  for  him,  it  was  their  appre- 
ciation of  his  surpassing  merits,  which  had  induced  them 
to  enter  upon  the  task  of  revealing  his  greatness  to  an 
incredulous  world.  Not  a  single  one  of  these  adapters, 
even  the  very  wTretchedest  of  them,  doubted  for  a  mo- 
ment that  his  work  was  a  decided  improvement  upon 
the  original.  No  self-effacing  modesty  caused  them 
to  hide  their  consciousness  of  the  credit  to  which  they 
were  entitled  for  having  conferred  upon  Shakespeare 
the  benefit  of  their  alterations.  This  feeling  of  benevo- 
lent superiority  they  extended  to  the  great  French 
authors,  whether  writers  of  tragedy  or  comedy,  whom 

299 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

they  plundered.  Mrs.  Centlivre  —  to  select  one  instance 
out  of  many  —  admits  that  her  play  of  '  Love's  Contriv- 
ance '  is  partly  taken  from  Moliere ;  but  she  is  bold 
enough  to  affirm,  she  assures  us,  that  it  has  not  suffered 
in  the  translation.  Indeed  she  remarks  that  whenever 
she  found  the  style  of  the  original  too  poor,  she  "en- 
deavored to  give  it  a  turn."  If  during  the  reign  of 
French  taste  and  deference  to  French  dramatists  men 
could  fancy  that  they  had  improved  upon  Moliere, 
Corneille,  and  Racine,  it  is  little  wonder  that  they 
should  think  they  had  improved  upon  Shakespeare. 
His  works,  they  conceded,  abounded  in  master-strokes 
of  genius ;  but  they  lacked  more  or  less  of  that  happy 
art  which  it  became  the  pleasing  duty  of  the  adapter  to 
supply.  It  was  not  unusual  for  them  to  talk  the  lan- 
guage of  discoverers.  They  had  stumbled,  as  it  were, 
upon  a  mine  of  gold.  It  was  encumbered  with  dross, 
it  was  mixed  "with  impurities;  from  these  it  was  their 
business  to  set  it  free,  to  refine  it,  so  that  it  should 
shine  in  its  native  lustre. 

All  these  states  of  mind  we  know  positively,  because 
the  authors  of  these  adaptations  disclose  them.  I  have 
already  given  the  self-satisfied  comments  with  which 
Ravenscroft  introduced  his  horrible  additions  to  a  hor- 
rible play.1  Tate,  in  the  dedication  of  his  version  of 
'  Lear, '  informed  the  friend  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
that  the  original  was  a  heap  of  jewels,  unstrung  and 
unpolished,  and  yet  so  dazzling  in  their  disorder  that 
he  soon  perceived  he  had  got  hold  of  a  treasure.  Again, 
in  the  prologue  to  his  alteration  of  '  Coriolanus '   he 

i  See  p.  196. 
300 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

expressed  a  feeling  of  confidence  in  the  success  of  his 
play  because  it  was  based  upon  the  previous  work  of 
Shakespeare.  His  business  it  had  been  to  build  upon 
the  massive  foundation  of  his  predecessor  the  artfully 
contrived  superstructure  which  should  remove  or  hide 
its  manifest  deformities.     As  he  tells  us  himself, 

"  He  only  ventures  to  make  gold  from  ore, 
And  turn  to  money  what  lay  dead  before." 

In  the  preface  to  his  alteration  of  '  Troilus  and  Cressida, ' 
which  he  mistakenly  fancied  an  early  play,  Dryden  ob- 
served that  since  there  appeared  in  some  places  of  this 
tragedy  the  admirable  genius  of  the  author,  he  had 
undertaken  to  remove  the  rubbish  under  which  many 
excellent  thoughts  lay  wholly  buried.  We  shall  have 
occasion  to  notice  other  manifestations  of  this  same 
serene  satisfaction.  Occasionally  a  fear  was  expressed 
that  there  was  danger  of  going  too  far.  Dennis,  who 
was  at  heart  a  most  genuine  admirer  of  Shakespeare, 
exhibited  this  feeling  in  the  alteration  he  made  of 
*  Coriolanus.'  He  tells  us  in  his  prologue  that  his 
production  is  a  mere  grafting  upon  the  work  of  the 
great  dramatist, 

"  In  whose  original  we  may  descry, 
Where  master-strokes  in  wild  confusion  lie, 
Here  brought  to  as  much  order  as  we  can 
Reduce  those  beauties  upon  Shakespeare's  plan ; 
And  from  his  plan  we  dar'd  not  to  depart, 
Lest  nature  should  be  lost  in  quest  of  art : 
And  art  had  been  attained  with  too  much  cost, 
Had  Shakespeare's  beauties  in  the  search  been  lost." 

But  usually  no  dread  of  this  sort  disturbed  the  heart 
of  the  adapter.     So  between  devotion  to  art  and  regard 

301 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

for  the  memory  of  the  poet,  the  magnificent  structures 
which  Shakespeare  had  reared  furnished  for  more  than 
a  century  employment  to  a  host  of  dramatic  carpenters, 
masons,  hodcarriers,  and  other  literary  mechanics,  not 
to  repair  them  indeed,  but  to  repair  their  conceptions 
of  them. 

During  the  fifty  years  which  followed  the  Restoration 
twenty-one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  appeared  in  some  sort 
of  altered  form.1     Five  of  them  were  during  the  time 

1  The  following  is  a  list  of  the  plays  altered  or  adapted  from 
Shakespeare  during  the  fifty  years  following  the  Restoration.  They 
are  given  according  to  the  date  of  their  publication.  This  in  the  case 
of  several,  especially  the  earlier  ones,  is  sometimes  quite  different 
from  the  date  of  their  production :  — 

1.  The  Tempest;  or  the  Enchanted  Island,  by  Dryden  and  D'Avenant,  1670. 

2.  The  Law  against  Lovers  (Measure  for  Measure),  by  D'Avenant,  1673. 

3.  Macbeth,  1673. 

4.  The  Tempest,  made  into  an  opera,  by  Shadwell,  1673. 

5.  Macbeth,  1674. 

6.  The  Mock-Tempest;  or  the  Enchanted  Castle,  by  Duffett,  1675.      For  'The 

Mock-Tempest '  of  the  title-page,  the  heading  of  the  play  itself  is  '  The 
New  Tempest.' 

7.  Timon  of  Athens,  by  Shadwell,  1678. 

8.  Troilus  and  Cressida,  or  Truth  Found  too  Late,  by  Dryden,  1679. 

9.  History  and  Fall  of  Caius  Marius  (Romeo  and  Juliet),  by  Otway,  1680. 

10.  King  Lear,  by  Tate,  1681. 

11.  The  History  of  King  Richard  the  Second  (acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  under 

the  name  of  'The  Sicilian  Usurper'),  by  Tate,  1681. 

12.  Henry   VL,  The   First   Part;    with   the   Murder  of   Humphrey,  Duke  of 

Gloucester  (Henry  VI. ,  Part  II.),  by  Crowne,  1681. 

13.  Henry  VI*,  The  Second  Part;   or  the  Miseries  of  Civil  War  (Henry  VI., 
Parts  II.  and  III.),  by  Crowne,  1680. 

14.  The  Ingratitude  of  a  Commonwealth  (Coriolanus),  by  Tate,  1682. 

15.  The  Injured  Princess,  or  the  Fatal  Wager  (Cymbeline),  by  Durfey,  1682. 

16.  Titus  Andronicus,  or  the  Rape  of  Lavinia.  by  Ravenscroft,  1687. 

17.  The  Fairy  Queen,  an  opera  (Midsummer  Night  Dream),  1692. 

18.  Sawney,  the  Scott  (Taming  of  the  Shrew),  by  Lacey,  1698. 
]!>.  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I.,  by  Betterton,  1700. 

20.  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II.,  by  Betterton  (not  published  till  1719). 

21.  King  Richard  III.,  b^Colley  Cibber,  1700. 

302 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

subjected  more  than  once  to  this  transmogrifying  process 
—  for  transforming  is  too  respectable  a  word  to  apply  to 
the  operation  that  took  place.  Before  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  about  fifty  other  alterations  were 
added  to  the  number.  It  does  not  fall  within  the  prov- 
ince of  this  work  to  give  any  account  of  these  versions, 
save  as  they  illustrate  the  influences  which  operated  to 
produce  them.  For  while  the  plea  set  up  in  justification 
of  the  changes  effected  was  the  desire  to  make  the  plays 
conform  to  what  was  then  called  the  purer  taste  of  the 
age,  or  what  we  should  call  its  want  of  taste,  this  was 
by  no  means  the  sole  motive  that  led  to  their  altera- 
tion. One  was  an  agency  which  naturally  never  ceased 
to  act,  so  long  as  work  of  this  character  could  be  ex- 
pected to  meet  with  favor.  The  dramatic  author  was 
always  intent  upon  the  production  of  a  new  play.  Nec- 
essarily he  was  often  hard  put  to  it  for  matter  and  sub- 
ject. By  him  the  dramas  of  the  Elizabethan  period 
were  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  quarry,  to  which  in  case 
of  need  or  hurry  he  could  turn  for  raw  material  to 
work  up  into  pieces  which  would  have  the  charm  of 
novelty.     What  he  could  borrow  saved  him  so  much 


22.  Measure  for  Measure,  or  Beauty  the  Best  Advocate,  by  Gildon,  1700. 

23.  The  Jew  of  Venice  (The  Merchant  of  Venice)  by  George  Granville  (Lord 

Lansdowne),  1701. 

24.  The  Comical  Gallant;  or  the  Amours  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  (Merry  Wives  of 

Windsor),  by  Dennis,  1702. 

25.  Love   Betrayed,    or   the   Agreeable   Disappointment   (Twelfth   Night),  by 

Burnaby,  170^J. 

In  addition,  in  10(i2,  '  Romeo  and  Juliet '  was  altered  into  a  tragi- 
comedy by  James  Howard.  It  was  never  printed.  The  alteration 
of  'Macbeth' — one  of  1673,  and  on  a  larger  scale  in  1674  —  is  attributed 
by  Downes,  in  his  '  Koscius  Anglicanus,'  to  D'Avenant. 

303 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

labor.  Of  the  dramatists  of  this  earlier  age  Shake- 
speare was  by  no  means  the  only  sufferer;  but  he  was 
much  the  greatest. 

Pressure  of  this  sort  seems  to  have  been  the  principal 
motive  which  led  men  to  add  new  scenes  and  characters 
to  certain  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  or  to  piece  out  from 
his  independent  compositions  of  their  own.  In  one  of 
the  first  of  these  alterations  this  process  was  carried 
to  an  extreme.  This  was  D'Avenant's  '  Law  against 
Lovers,'  produced  as  early  as  February,  1662.  Into 
it  he  melted  the  two  plays  of  '  Measure  for  Measure  ' 
and  '  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,'  with  numerous  addi- 
tions of  his  own ;  or  perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct 
to  say,  that  the  episode  of  Benedict  and  Beatrice  was 
extracted  from  the  latter  and  inserted  with  great  varia- 
tions into  the  former.  How  violent  was  the  change, 
and  how  inferior  the  plot,  can  be  guessed  from  the  fact 
that  the  character  of  Mariana  was  discarded  entirely, 
and  that  Isabella,  after  refusing  to  yield  to  Angelo's 
attempt  upon  her  virtue  is  married  to  him  at  the  con- 
clusion by  the  order  of  the  duke.  There  was  also  a 
great  deal  of  modification  of  the  language  of  Shake- 
speare even  where  it  purported  to  be  retained.  The 
result  of  this  combination  is  that  all  the  pathos  of  the 
one  play  vanishes  and  all  the  wit  of  the  other,  while 
the  whole  is  written  in  the  most  villanous  blank  verse 
that  ever  tried  to  palm  itself  off  as  poetry  instead  of 
prose.  Perhaps  even  a  more  extraordinary  performance 
of  this  nature  were  the  scenes  taken  from  '  Romeo  and 
Juliet,'  which  Otway  introduced  into  his  play  entitled 
'  The  History  and  Fall  of  Caius  Marius, '  brought  out 

304 
i 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

in  1680.  Never  was  there  a  more  incompatible  mixture 
of  blood-letting  and  love-making.  Into  the  stormy 
strife  of  the  Roman  civil  war,  with  its  proscriptions 
and  massacres,  was  intruded  the  story  of  love  and  hate 
which  in  Shakespeare's  hands  had  become  the  purest 
embodiment  of  the  fusion  of  passion  and  poetry.  The 
incongruity  takes  on  the  air  of  the  grotesque,  when  we 
find  the  son  of  Caius  Marius  in  the  place  of  Romeo, 
and  Sulla  in  that  of  the  Count  Paris  who  is  the  des- 
tined husband  of  Juliet. 

But  the  most  offensive,  as  it  was  the  most  famous  of 
the  alterations  which  were  made  for  the  sake  of  bring- 
ing out  a  novelty  rather  than  of  repairing  any  supposed 
artistic  imperfections  in  the  original,  was  that  wrought 
by  D'Avenant  and  Dryden  upon  '  The  Tempest.'  This 
play  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  Shakespeare's 
creations.  To  the  audiences  of  his  own  time  it  must 
have  had  a  charm  which  we  may  comprehend  but  can 
imperfectly  appreciate.  The  romance  of  worlds  as  yet 
unexplored  was  suggested  by  it,  the  imagination  was 
captivated  by  the  portrayal  of  sights  and  sounds  which 
men  hesitated  to  believe  and  yet  did  not  venture  wholly 
to  deny.  No  impressions  of  this  nature  will  be  con- 
veyed even  remotely  by  the  adaptation.  It  excites  alter- 
nate feelings  of  amusement  and  irritation.  The  former 
state  of  mind  is  largely  due  to  what  Dryden  termed 
D'Avenant's  "excellent  contrivance"  of  doubling  the 
personages  of  the  play.  Miranda  has  a  sister  called 
Dorinda.  Caliban  too  has  a  sister  called  Sycorax. 
Ariel  is  likewise  furnished  with  "a  gentle  spirit,"  as 
he  describes  her,  who  goes  under  the  name  of  Milcha, 
20  305 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

and  who  with  fine  feminine  devotion  has  been  waiting 
fourteen  years  for  the  day  of  his  deliverance.  As  if 
these  additions  were  not  enough,  there  was  supplied  as 
a  counterpart  to  the  daughters  of  Prospero  a  young 
man  who  had  never  seen  a  woman,  though  he  had  lived 
on  the  same  island  with  two  of  them  until  he  had 
reached  manhood.  All  this  appears  much  more  ridicu- 
lous in  the  play  than  in  any  account  which  can  be  given 
of  it ;  but  there  is  also  contained  in  it  a  good  deal  to 
arouse  indignation.  The  instinctive  delicacy,  the  in- 
born purity  of  Miranda,  as  depicted  in  the  original, 
utterly  disappears  in  the  part  she  is  made  to  assume 
in  the  alteration.  Her  conversation  with  her  sister 
Dorinda  is  of  the  kind  that  might  have  gone  on  be- 
tween two  maids  of  honor  of  the  court  of  Charles  II. ; 
but  however  true  to  the  life  then  lived,  it  was  certainly 
not  true  to  any  life  worth  living.  The  alteration  is 
really  little  better  than  a  travesty.  A  lower  deep  was 
reached  when  it  in  turn  was  travestied  in  a  play  in 
which  Prospero  was  made  keeper  of  the  Bridewell 
prison,  and  much  of  Shakespeare's  language  converted 
to  vilest  use. 

Another  agency  at  work  in  bringing  about  these 
alterations  was  the  desire  to  gratify  that  fondness  for 
spectacular  entertainment  which  has  always  existed  in 
the  heart  of  man,  and  it  may  safely  be  predicted  will 
always  continue  to  exist.  There  was  nothing  new  about 
it  at  the  era  of  the  Restoration.  Complaint  on  this 
very  score  can  be  found  in  that  earlier  period  in  which 
we  now  regard  the  theatre  as  being  in  its  highest  glory. 
But  it  received  a  powerful  impetus  after  the  return  of 

306 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

Charles,  in  consequence  of  the  introduction  of  movable 
scenery.  This  afforded  additional  facilities  for  the 
production  of  spectacular  effect.  Its  attractions  were 
further  increased  by  the  addition  of  song  and  dance, 
especially  as  the  accompaniment  of  an  inserted  masque. 
The  desire  of  seeing  shows  of  this  sort  is  so  inherent 
in  human  nature  that  it  is  useless  to  rail  against  its 
manifestation.  But  what  astounds  the  modern  reader, 
and  occasionally  calls  forth  his  indignation,  is  the 
dreadful  inappropriateness  of  introducing  these  spec- 
tacles into  the  sort  of  plays  in  which  they  frequently 
occur.  The  attempt  to  interrupt  the  action  of  a  well- 
constructed  comedy  with  impertinent  matter  of  this 
kind  is  bad  enough;  but  to  arrest  the  progress  of  a 
tragedy  in  such  a  way  is  little  short  of  a  literary  crime. 
Yet  this  was  not  unfrequently  done  by  the  very  men 
who  posed  as  the  champions  of  art;  by  some  indeed 
who  professed  themselves  shocked  at  the  introduction 
into  serious  pieces  of  comic  scenes  and  low  personages. 

Elaborate  entertainments  of  this  sort  were  brought 
into  D'Avenant's  '  Law  of  Love  '  just  described,  and 
one  female  character  was  added  for  little  other  pur- 
pose than  to  give  occasion  for  singing  and  dancing. 
These  exhibitions  were  carried  out  on  a  much  grander 
scale  in  the  alteration  of  '  Measure  for  Measure  '  by 
Gildon,  which  appeared  in  1700.  The  practice  had  its 
worst,  because  its  most  inappropriate,  exemplification  in 
D'Avenant's  version  of  '  Macbeth.'  Into  this  sternest 
of  tragedies  were  introduced  music  and  dancing.  Yet 
there  can  be  no  question  that  these  additions  were 
received   favorably.     Pepys,   who  saw  the   piece  acted 

307 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

several  times,  was  impressed  by  their  appropriateness. 
He  tells  us  that '  Macbeth  '  "  appears  a  most  excellent 
play  in  all  respects,  but  especially  in  divertisement, 
though  it  be  a  deep  tragedy ;  which  is  a  strange  perfec- 
tion in  a  tragedy,  it  being  most  proper  here  and  suit- 
able." 1  This  change  of  its  character  affected  directly 
or  indirectly  the  manner  in  which  the  play  was  repre- 
sented for  a  long  period  following.  It  was  not  indeed 
until  the  middle  of  the  last  century  that  its  baleful 
influence  was  shaken  off  altogether.  In  1847,  at  the 
Sadler's  Wells  Theatre,  then  under  the  management  of 
the  actor  Samuel  Phelps,  the  witches  were  made,  for  the 
first  time  in  nearly  two  centuries,  to  appear  in  their  true 
character  as  hags,  instead  of  good-looking  singers. 

To  this  same  desire  for  spectacular  exhibitions  we  owe 
the  transformation  of  several  of  Shakespeare's  plays  into 
operas,  which  at  that  time  meant  dramas  in  which  sing- 
ing, dancing,  and  recitative  were  the  main  features.  It 
was  a  practice  which  was  kept  up  during  a  good  part  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  But  there  was  another  agency 
of  quite  different  character  at  work  in  producing  these 
alterations.  This  was  the  aversion  to  the  tragical  con- 
clusion of  tragedy.  Sometimes  taking  the  name  of  poetic 
justice,  it  assumed  that  it  was  the  representative  of  a 
much  higher  art.  In  reality  it  was  based  upon  that 
characteristic  of  human  nature  which  prefers  a  fortunate 
ending  of  any  story  said  or  sung  to  a  sad  one,  and  which 
at  the  present  day  leads  many  to  object  to  a  novel  ending 
unhappily.  The  feeling  showed  itself  early.  One  of 
the  very  first  alterations  of  Shakespeare  was  made  in 

l  Pepys's  Diary,  Jan.  7,  16G7. 
308 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

accordance  with  its  demands.  '  Romeo  and  Juliet '  was 
transformed  into  a  tragi-comedy  in  which  the  lives  of 
the  hero  and  heroine  were  preserved.  This  version 
—  which  has  not  come  down  —  was  the  work  of  the 
Honorable  James  Howard,  one  of  Dryden's  numerous 
brothers-in-law.  The  conflicting  claims  of  the  parti- 
sans of  weal  and  woe  were  satisfied  at  the  time  by  the 
management  of  the  theatre.  The  drama  was  acted  for 
a  while, —  one  day  with  its  original  tragical  ending, 
the  day  following  with  the  new  and  happy  one.1  This 
same  aversion  to  a  sorrowful  conclusion  was  one  of  the 
agencies  which  contributed  to  maintain  the  hold  of 
Tate's  version  of  '  King  Lear  '  upon  the  stage.  Even 
Colman,  when  he  rejected  in  his  own  alteration  the 
love-scenes,  did  not  venture  to  restore  the  tragic  ending. 
That  was  not  done  until  1823,  when  the  fifth  act  was 
played  by  Kean  as  it  was  written  by  Shakespeare. 

A  more  important  agency  than  any  yet  mentioned 
has  jusTTl3een  indicated.  It  was  the  desire  to  intro- 
duce a  story  of  love.  Both  during  the  Restoration 
period  and  later  it  played  a  prominent  part  in  the 
alterations  which  were  made  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  If 
in  them  there  were  no  love  scenes,  they  were  supplied ; 
if  there  were  love  scenes  already,  they  were  supplied 
with  more.  This  was  a  practice  which  began  early 
and  continued  late.  It  was  a  peculiarly  incongruous 
mixture  that  was  produced  when  this  passion  was  made 
to  operate  in  the  Histories.  Crowne,  who  unblushingly 
stole  no  small  portion  of  his  second  part  of  '  Henry  VI.' 
from  "the  divine  Shakespeare,"  as  he  termed  him,  and 

1  Downes's  Koscius  Anglicanus,  p.  16  (Knight's  reprint,  1886). 

309 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

then  did  not  blush  to  deny  that  he  stole  anything,1 
introduced  into  his  alteration  a  good  deal  of  love- 
making,  in  which  Warwick,  the  king-maker,  Edward  • 
Plantagenet,  his  future  queen,  Lady  Grey,  and  a  new 
character,  Lady  Eleanor  Butler,  all  have  a  share.  It 
is  as  needless  as  it  is  gratifying  to  observe  that  not  a 
hint  for  these  scenes  can  be  found  in  the  original.  The 
demand  for  this  sort  of  emotional  stimulant  seems  to 
have  been  urgent  and  continuous.  It  can  be  found 
generally  in  the  alterations  made  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. Even  Sheffield,  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire,  when 
he  divided  '  Julius  Caesar  '  into  two  plays  in  order  to  pre- 
serve his  darling  unities  —  and  even  then  succeeded  but 
imperfectly  —  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  inter- 
sperse some  love  dialogue  in  the  midst  of  the  political 
action  which  was  going  on. 

Such  practices  were  due  largely,  as  we  have  seen,  to 
the  example  set  by  the  French  stage.  Under  its  influ- 
ence love  had  come  to  be  considered  essential  to  tragedy. 
Indeed  the  introduction  of  this  passion  seems  to  have 
been  the  main  reason  why  Shadwell  felt  himself  justi- 
fied in  boasting  that  he  had  made  '  Timon  '  into  a  play. 
In  Shakespeare  the  only  female  characters  in  that  drama 
are  the  two  mistresses  of  Alcibiades.  They  too  are 
brought  in  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  give  additional 
vigor  and  extension  to  the  curses  of  the  misanthrope. 
There  is  no  suggestion  of  any  love  on  their  part  except 
the  love  of  money ;    and  they  come  and  go  in  a  single 

1  "For  by  his  feeble  skill  't  is  built  alone, 

The  divine  Shakespeare  did  not  lay  one  stone." 

Prologue  to  Crowne's  '  Miseries  of  Civil  War.' 

310 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

scene.  No  wonder  that  Shadwell  did  not  consider  such 
a  production  a  play.  He  would  have  been  unfaithful  to 
the  Restoration  ideal,  had  he  treated  the  passion  so  dis- 
dainfully. Accordingly  he  endowed  the  piece  with  two 
female  characters,  —  one  a  discarded  mistress  who  re- 
mains faithful  to  Timon  throughout;  the  other  an 
expectant  bride  who  deserts  him  the  moment  when 
calamity  comes.  Little  more  than  a  hundred  years 
afterward  Cumberland  improved  upon  this  example. 
In  his  version  of  the  tragedy,  which  was  brought  out  in 
1771,  he  furnished  Timon  with  a  daughter,  with  whom 
Alcibiades  is  in  love,  while  a  more  wealthy  personage 
appears  also  as  a  suitor  for  her  hand. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  introduction  of  these 
love  scenes  contributed  a  good  deal  to  the  success,  at 
least  to  the  temporary  success,  of  some  of  these  altera- 
tions. The  most  marked  illustration  of  the  benefit  of 
this  kind  derived  from  them  is  seen,  as  has  already 
been  pointed  out,  in  the  remodelling  which  '  Lear ' 
underwent  at  the  hand  of  Tate.  By  that  author  him- 
self it  was  regarded  as  a  master  stroke.  Tate  particu- 
larly prided  himself  upon  having  had  the  good  fortune 
to  light  upon  an  expedient  which  was  to  rectify  what 
was  wanting  in  the  regularity  and  probability  of  the 
play,  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it.  This  was  to  run  through 
the  whole  a  series  of  love  scenes  between  Edgar  and 
Cordelia,  who  never  exchanged  word  in  the  original. 
Them  accordingly  he  made  attached  to  each  other  from 
the  outset.  The  advantages  of  this  course,  he  him- 
self assures  us,  were  obvious.  It  gave  an  air  of  prob- 
ability to  Cordelia's  indifference  and  Lear's  answer.     It 

311 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

further  supplied  a  generous  motive  for  Edgar's  disguise. 
In  Shakespeare  it  was  nothing  but  a  poor  pitiful  shift 
to  save  his  own  life,  —  an  object  simply  unnatural  and 
contemptible  to  be  kept  in  view  by  the  hero  of  a 
tragedy.  In  Tate's  version  it  was  elevated  to  a  noble 
design  to  be  of  service  to  Cordelia. 

Deride  it  and  despise  it  as  we  justly  may,  the  intro- 
duction of  love  into  this  tragedy  found  favor,  as  a 
general  rule,  with  both  the  public  and  the  critics  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  To  it  more  than  to  any  one  cause 
was  due  the  permanence  of  the  hold  which  this  altera- 
tion kept  upon  the  stage.  Garrick,  who  revived  the 
play  in  1756,  restored  a  good  deal  of  the  language  of 
the  original ;  for  some  of  its  finest  passages  had  been 
botched  by  Tate  most  scandalously.  But  he  retained 
much  which  might  better  have  been  left  out.  Nor,  in 
particular,  did  he  venture  to  discard  the  love-scenes. 
He  hesitated,  but  finally  decided  that  the  risk  was  too 
great  to  run.1  Davies  indeed  tells  us  that  though  he 
had  witnessed  the  representation  of  the  play  twenty 
or  thirty  times,  he  had  never  seen  Edgar  and  Cordelia 
leave  the  stage  after  their  unexpected  interview  —  as 
exhibited  in  the  third  act  of  Tate's  version  —  without 
the  accompaniment  of  rapturous  applause  from  the 
spectators.2  Garrick  might  possibly  have  succeeded 
in  restoring  the  original ;  but  what  he  failed  to  do  it 
was  not  in  the  power  of  an  inferior  man  to  accom- 
plish. This  was  shown  by  the  fate  of  Colman's  version, 
which  was  produced  in  February,  1768.  In  it  he  threw 
out  the  whole  episode  of  love.     " '  Romeo,'  '  Cymbeline,' 

1  Davies,  Dramatic  Miscellanies,  vol.  ii.  p.  264.  2  Ibid. 

312 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

'  Every  Man  in  his  Humor,'  '  he  wrote,  "  have 
lono-  been  refined  from  the  dross  that  hindered  them 
from  being  current  with  the  public ;  and  I  have  now 
endeavored  to  purge  the  tragedy  of  '  Lear '  of  the  alloy 
of  Tate  which  has  so  long  been  suffered  to  debase  it." 
But  his  alteration  never  superseded  the  one  which  had 
held  the  stage  for  nearly  a  hundred  years.  It  met  with 
moderate  success  at  its  first  appearance,  and  after  Col- 
man  left  the  management  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre 
in  1774,  it  seems  to  have  been  dropped  entirely. 

These  were  the  main  motives  which  under  the  guise 
of  devotion  to  art  led  to  the  changes  which  were  made 
in  Shakespeare's  plays.  It  shows  the  growth  both  of 
knowledge  and  of  appreciation  of  his  works  that  with 
the  progress  of  time  these  attempts  became  more  and 
more  distasteful  to  the  public.  Custom  had  caused  cer- 
tain of  the  old  alterations  to  be  accepted  with  equanimity, 
and  in  some  instances  with  favor ;  but  new  experiments 
upon  the  integrity  of  his  writings  came  to  be  regarded 
almost  invariably  with  dislike.  If  any  one  of  them 
secured  success  at  all,  it  was  owing  to  its  having  been 
brought  out  under  exceptional  conditions.  Garrick  was 
indeed  the  only  writer  who  could  venture  to  make 
changes  with  much  hope  of  approval ;  and  that  was 
not  really  due  to  the  changes,  but  to  his  own  wonder- 
ful acting.  The  aversion  felt  to  these  proceedings  was 
not  due,  as  the  classicists  tried  to  persuade  themselves, 
to  blind  unreasoning  devotion,  but  to  a  steadily  in- 
creasing perception  of  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  was 
not  only  a  great  poet  but  also  a  great  artist ;  and  that 
these  tamperings  with  his  text,  winch  had  once  been 

313 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

so  common,  were  of  the  nature  of  efforts  to  improve 
the  purity  of  gold  by  mixing  with  it  a  due  quantity  of 
brass.  As  we  have  seen,  not  all  the  influence  of  Gar- 
rick  nor  the  magnetic  charm  of  his  acting  could  rec- 
oncile the  public  to  his  alteration  of  '  Hamlet.'  If  it 
would  not  accept  his  essay,  naturally  inferior  men  fared 
worse.  Their  versions  were  often  not  acted,  or,  if  acted, 
met  usually  with  disfavor.  If  they  succeeded  at  all,  it 
was  owing  to  circumstances  entirely  independent  of  any 
approval  by  the  public  of  the  changes  which  had  been 
made. 

Colley  Cibber,  tempted  by  the  success  of  his  altera- 
tion of  'Richard  III,'  set  out  many  years  after  upon 
the  task  of  remodelling  '  King  John.'  The  revision  was 
offered  to  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane  in  1735.  But 
times  had  changed.  The  criticism  which  the  project 
called  forth  irritated  the  actor,  and  led  him  to  withdraw 
the  piece  from  consideration.  This  version  was  not 
published  until  1745;  yet  something  of  its  character 
must  have  become  known  at  the  very  time  in  which  it 
was  written.  Two  years  later  Fielding  made  both 
Cibber  and  his  proposed  action  the  subject  of  satire  in 
his  piece  entitled  '  The  Historical  Register  for  the  Year 
1736.'  In  this  play  he  brought  in  the  adapter  under 
the  name  of  Ground  Ivy,  and  represented  him  as  declar- 
ing: that  it  was  a  maxim  of  his,  while  he  was  at  the  head 
of  theatrical  affairs,  that  no  play,  though  ever  so  good, 
could  do  without  alteration.  Shakespeare  was  a  very 
pretty  fellow,  he  was  represented  as  remarking,  and 
had  said  some  things  which  only  wanted  a  little  of  his 
licking  Into  shape  to  do  well  enough.     "  For  instance," 

314 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

he  continued,  "  in  the  play  before  us "  —  which  was 
'  King  John  '  —  "  the  bastard  Faulconbridge  is  a  most 
effeminate  character,  for  which  reason  I  would  cut  him 
out,  and  put  all  his  sentiments  in  the  mouth  of  Con- 
stance, who  is  so  much  properer  to  speak  them."  When 
the  play  was  published  later,  it  turned  out  that  this 
was  a  change  which  had  actually  been  carried  into  ef- 
fect. It  was  impossible  for  even  the  imagination  of 
Fielding  to  have  foreseen  that  anything  so  preposterous 
could  ever  have  occurred  to  a  rational  human  being ; 
he  must  have  known  it  at  the  time  as  an  actual  fact. 

Furthermore,  in  the  play  just  mentioned,  Fielding 
incidentally  gaye  the  opinion  of  alterations,  which  was 
beginning  to  be  widely  entertained  by  the  men  who 
were  not  dominated  by  the  views  that  prevailed  among 
the  classicists.  It  is  expressed  by  the  supposed  author 
of  the  piece,  who  is  one  of  the  characters  taking  part  in 
the  action.  "  As  Shakespeare,"  says  he,  "  is  already 
good  enough  for  people  of  taste,  he  must  be  altered 
to  the  palates  of  those  who  have  none."  Later,  when 
the  same  character  is  asked  if  he  intended  to  burlesque 
the  poet,  he  replies  in  a  way  that  conveys  clearly 
Fielding's  contempt  for  the  changes  which  had  been 
made  in  the  past.  "  I  have  too  great  an  honor  for  Shake- 
speare," he  saj-s,  "  to  think  of  burlesquing  him,  and  to 
be  sure  of  not  burlesquing  him,  I  will  never  attempt  to 
alter  him  for  fear  of  burlesquing  him  by  accident,  as 
perhaps  some  others  have  done."  Again,  in  this  play 
Fielding  put  in  the  mouth  of  Theophilus  Gibber  —  who 
appears  under  the  name  of  Pistol  —  another  satirical 
reference  to  his  father's  adaptation  which  has  just  been 

315 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

mentioned,  and  the  fate  which  would  have  befallen  it, 
had  it  actually  been  brought  upon  the  stage.  "  Such 
was  the  hiss  in  which  great  John  should  have  expired," 
Pistol  is  represented  as  exclaiming.  Pope  borrowed  the 
idea,  and  in  his  revised  '  Dunciad  '  of  1743  commented 
upon   the   withdrawal   of    the   piece   in   the   following 

line :  — 

"  King  John  in  silence  modestly  expires." 1 

In  spite  of  all  this  Cibber  found  his  opportunity  at 
last.  Early  in  1745  the  country  was  going  through 
one  of  those  periodical  outbreaks  against  Roman  Ca- 
tholicism to  which  Protestant  England  has  always  been 
subject.  It  had  assumed  just  then  an  aggravated  form 
in  consequence  of  the  threatened  invasion  of  the  king- 
dom by  the  Young  Pretender,  and  the  dreaded  return 
to  the  throne  of  the  Stuart  line.  Taking  advantage 
of  the  occasion,  Cibber  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden 
his  alteration  under  the  title  of  '  Papal  Tyranny  in 
the  Reign  of  King  John.'  It  is  a  pretty  difficult 
achievement  to  convert  that  monarch  into  a  hero,  still 
more  difficult  to  convert  him  into  a  Christian  hero ; 
but  patriotism  has  been  successful  in  accomplishing  even 
more  formidable  tasks.  At  this  time,  too,  it  was  assisted 
by  the  feeling  certain  to  be  prevalent  in  an  English 
audience  that  the  Pope  should  be  thoroughly  and  insult- 
ingly defied.  Cibber  fulfilled  the  requirement  nobly, 
and  received  his  reward.  Popular  excitement  gave  the 
play  the  then  respectable  run  of  ten  nights  ;  just  as  later 
in  the  year  when  the  threatened  invasion  had  become  a 
reality,  it  caused  the  revival  of  '  The  Non-juror '  in  both 

1  Dunciad,  hook  i.  line  252. 
316 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

houses.  Cibber  however  attributed  his  success  to  no 
adventitious  circumstances,  but  to  the  inherent  merit  of 
the  changes  he  had  introduced  into  the  performance. 
In  liis  dedication  of  the  play  to  Lord  Chesterfield  he 
rivalled  the  modesty  of  the  earlier  adapters  by  assert- 
ing that  he  had  made  it  more  like  a  play  than  when 
he  found  it  in  Shakespeare.  When  the  cause  of  the 
popularity  of  the  piece  passed  away,  the  effect  dis- 
appeared also.  It  seems  never  to  have  been  heard 
of  again. 

It  would  be  a  mistake  to  assume  that  attempts  of 
this  nature  had  generally  ceased  by  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  On  the  contrary  they  continued 
to  be  common.  Still  the  hesitation  with  which  projects 
of  this  kind  were  put  forth  becomes  noticeable,  as  well 
as  the  apologetic  attitude  with  which  the  slightest 
thought  of  reflecting  upon  the  poet  is  disclaimed. 
Hawkins,  for  instance,  one  of  the  most  unpoetical  of 
the  professors  of  poetry  at  Oxford,  produced  an  al- 
teration of  'Cymbeline.'  In  his  preface  he  professed 
that  he  felt  it  an  honor  to  tread  in  the  steps  of 
Shakespeare  and  to  imitate  his  style  with  the  rever- 
ence and  humility  of  a  son.  This  particular  play,  he 
told  us,  was  one  of  the  most  irregular  written  by  the 
dramatist.  Still  its  defects,  or  rather  its  superfluities, 
were  more  than  equalled  by  beauties  and  excellences 
of  various  kinds.  All  he  therefore  aimed  to  do  was 
to  reduce  it  as  far  as  possible  to  the  laws  of  the  unities. 
In  his  additions  he  assured  us  he  sought  to  copy  the 
vigor,  the  diction,  the  glowing  vein  of  the  mighty  mind 
which  had  produced  the  original ;  but  likewise  he  had 

317 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

presumed  to  regulate  and  modernize  the  plot  of  the 
play.     As  he  tells  us  in  the  prologue, 

"  For  other  points  our  new  adventurer  tries 
The  bard's  luxuriant  plan  to  modernize  : 
And  by  the  rules  of  ancient  art  refine 
The  same  eventful  pleasing  bold  design." 

This  alteration  was  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden  in 
February,  1759.  It  met  with  no  success.  The  spectators 
had  ceased  to  desire  Shakespeare's  work  to  be  refined 
by  the  rules  of  ancient  art.  The  version  "  after  freez- 
ing one  or  two  thin  audiences  sunk  into  oblivion."  l 
The  classicists  themselves  came  at  last  to  recognize 
that  this  sort  of  work  would  no  longer  do.  Cumber- 
land's alteration  of  '  Timon,'  which  appeared  in  1771, 
pleased  the  critics,  at  least  some  of  them.  They  praised 
him  for  retrenching  the  extravagances  and  lopping  off 
the  excrescences  which  had  disfigured  the  original.  But 
though  it  pleased  them,  it  did  not  please  the  audience. 
Garrick  confessed  to  one  of  his  correspondents  that  it 
had  not  succeeded  to  his  wish.2  It  ran  counter  to  the 
prejudices  of  the  public,  or,  as  one  of  the  reviewers 
was  sorrowfully  constrained  to  admit,  to  "the  devout 
reverence  in  which  even  the  faults  of  Shakespeare  are 
generally  held."  3 

We  have  now  reached  a  point  where  it  is  necessary 
to  consider  these  alterations  not  merely  with  reference 
to  the  agencies  which  brought  them  into  being,  but 
to  their  merit  as  works  of   art   contrasted  with   their 

1  European  Magazine,  vol.  i.  p.  358. 

2  Garrick  Correspondence,  vol.  i.  p.  448. 

3  Monthly  Review,  vol.  xlv.  p.  507,  December,  1771. 

318 


ALTERATIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

originals.  Volumes  could  be  filled  with  exemplifi- 
cations of  their  absurdities.  A  few  can  only  be 
mentioned  here,  taken  mainly  from  those  plays  which 
longest  held  possession  of  the  stage.  Three  of  these 
in  particular  met  with  special  success,  and  their  later 
fortunes  therefore  deserve  mention.  They  are  Colley 
Gibber's  version  of  '  Richard  III,'  which  was  brought 
out  in  1700 ;  Nahum  Tate's  version  of  '  Lear,'  which 
was  brought  out  in  1681 ;  and  Lord  Lansdowne's  ver- 
sion of  the  'Merchant  of  Venice,'  which  was  brought 
out  in  1701.  This  last  was  the  shortest-lived  of  the 
three.  It  kept  exclusive  possession  of  the  stage  until 
1741,  when  on  the  14th  of  February  Macklin's  cele- 
brated revival  of  the  original  took  place  at  Drury  Lane. 
It  is  a  common  statement  that  the  alteration  then  dis- 
appeared forever.  Genest,  the  annalist  of  the  lat  r 
drama,  whose  accuracy  can  almost  invariably  be  trusted 
as  safely  as  his  critical  comments  can  frequently  be  disre- 
garded, declares  that  "  from  this  time  Lansdowne's  Jew 
of  Venice  has  been  consigned  to  oblivion."  1  Yet  the 
remarks  made  upon  it  in  Baker's  '  Companion  to  the 
Stage,'  published  in  1764,  certainly  give  the  impression 
that  it  was  then  holding  its  own  with  the  original.2 

On  the  other  hand  Cibber's  version  of  'Richard  III.' 
was  the  longest-lived.  In  March,  1821,  Macready  made 
an  attempt  to  have  the  play,  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it, 
revived  at  the  Covent  Garden  Theatre  ;  but  the  under- 
taking  was   ill-managed,    and    the    experiment   was   a 

1  Genest,   vol.   iii.  p.  020. 

2  The  second  edition  of  tin's  work,  which  appeared  in  1782  under  the 
title  of  'Biographia  Dramatica/ was  Largely  rewritten  by  Isaac  Keed, 

but  it  made  no  change  in  this  statement. 

319 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

failure.  It  was  acted  but  two  nights.  Macready  tells 
us  in  his  diary  that  later  he  would  have  presented  it 
in  its  purity,  had  his  management  of  Covent  Garden 
Theatre  —  which  extended  from  1837  to  1839  —  been 
continued.1  The  task  he  did  not  attempt  was  under- 
taken by  Phelps  at  the  Sadler's  Wells  Theatre  in  1845. 
During  the  first  season  of  his  management  he  played  the 
piece  with  certain  condensations  as  it  was  originally 
written.  Its  revival  took  place  on  the  20th  of  February 
of  that  year.  Before  the  season  closed  it  had  been  per- 
formed at  least  twenty-one  times.2 

The  memory  of  this  attempt  had  died  away,  when 
in  January,  1877,  'Richard  III.'  was  revived  for  a 
second  time  by  Henry  Irving,  and,  as  it  is  claimed, 
with  stricter  adherence  to  the  original  text  than  when 
it  was  played  by  Phelps.  On  January  29  of  the  year 
just  mentioned  it  was  put  on  the  'stage  of  the  Lyceum 
Theatre.  It  is  spoken  of  as  having  been  highly  suc- 
cessful;  it  certainly  ran  until  May  12,  when  it  gave 
way  to  '  The  Lyons  Mail,'  adapted  by  Charles  Reade 
from  the  French.  During  that  period  it  had  been  acted 
in  all  eighty-four  times.  A  similar  course  was  taken  a 
year  later  in  America.  On  the  Gth  of  January,  1878, 
Edwin  Booth  opened  a  six  weeks'  engagement  at  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Theatre,  New  York,  with  the  perform- 
ance of  this  tragedy,  as  written  by  Shakespeare.  Be- 
fore he  had  finished,  he  had  played  it  a  dozen  times. 
At  the  close  of  this  same  year  he  repeated  the  same 

1  Macready,  Diary,  p.  170  (American  edition). 

2  '  The  Life  and  Life- Work  of  Samuel  Phelps  '  (p.  69)  says  "  twenty- 
four  times,"  and  it  is  very  likely  right;  but  I  find  the  piece  advertised 
for  only  twenty-one  nights. 

320 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

performance  during  a  short  engagement  at  the  Winter 
Garden  Theatre.1 

Of  the  original  text  of  '  Lear,'  there  had  been,  as  we 
have  seen,  spasmodic  partial  revivals.  It  was  not  until 
January  25,  1838,  that  Macready  brought  it  out  in 
its  entirety  at  the  Co  vent  Garden  Theatre.  He  hesi- 
tated for  a  while  about  restoring  the  fool,  not  on  any 
ground  of  its  failure  in  art,  but  from  the  fear  that 
the  terrible  contrast  of  the  characters  would  destroy 
instead  of  enhancing  the  effect  in  acting  representa- 
tion. Both  Garrick  and  Colman  had  considered  the 
advisability  of  reviving  this  part.2  Macready 's  'Lear' 
seems  to  have  achieved  a  respectable,  but  only  re- 
spectable, success.  It  was  played  eleven  times  before 
the  season  closed  on  the  sixth  of  July.  It  was  subse- 
quently produced  from  the  original  of  Shakespeare  by 
Phelps  in  November,  1845,  at  the  Sadler's  Wells  Theatre. 

So  much  for  the  later  fortunes  of  these  plays,  re- 
modellings  of  which  were  the  last  survivals  of  prac- 
tices that  had  once  been  common.  Our  wonder  at 
the  audacity,  not  to  call  it  impudence  of  these  altera- 
tions, is  increased  —  if  increase  be  possible  —  when  we 
come  to  consider  that  Shakespeare  was  not  onl}-  a  born 
dramatist  with  an  eye  constantly  fixed  upon  stage 
effect,  but  that  he  was  in  addition  a  born  poet,  who 
was  able  to  give  to  the  interest  of  impressive  or  start- 
ling situations  the  further  charm  of  beautiful  imagery 
and   exquisite   verse.     The   ability  to   accomplish    the 

1  New  York  Tribune,  Jan.  8,  1878,  and  Dec.  5,  1878,  p.  5  and  col.  2 
of  both  issues. 

2  Davies,  Dramatic  Miscellanies,  vol.  ii.  p.  267. 

21  321 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

latter,  it  is  needless  to  say,  is  not  only  of  a  far  higher 
kind  than  that  of  producing  the  former,  but  it  is 
something  rarely  found  in  conjunction  with  it.  One 
would  therefore  fancy  when  the  two  qualities  happened 
to  meet  in  any  particular  work,  the  parts  exhibiting  this 
union  in  its  most  perfect  form  would  be  carefully  re- 
tained, no  matter  what  disposition  might  be  made  for 
stage  purposes  of  the  rest  of  the  play.  This  not  un- 
reasonable anticipation  is  doomed  to  disappointment. 
The  large  majority  of  the  men  who  meddled  with 
Shakespeare's  dramas  were  not  only  incapable  of  doing 
a  good  thing  themselves,  they  did  not  appear  to  know 
it  when  they  saw  it  done  by  somebody  else.  One  of 
the  most  singular  things  connected  with  these  altera- 
tions is  that  in  many  cases  where  the  stage  situation 
is  retained,  that  which  gives  the  part  its  greatest  dis- 
tinction as  literature  is  carelessly  allowed  or  carefully 
made  to  disappear.  Sometimes  it  is  omitted  altogether ; 
sometimes  it  is  subjected  to  modification  just  sufficient 
to  turn  highly  poetical  poetry  into  very  prosaic  prose. 
Worse  than  all,  there  is  occasionally  matter  added  to  it 
which  causes  to  the  sensitive  soul  almost  a  thrill  of  pain 
that  stuff  so  abominable  should  have  ever  by  any  chance 
come  to  be  associated  with  the  name  of  Shakespeare. 

Omission  indeed,  the  most  numerous  perhaps  of  all 
these  changes,  can  up  to  a  certain  point  plead  in  its  de- 
fence that  things  were  left  out,  not  because  there  was 
lack  of  appreciation  of  the  poetry,  but  because  there  is  a 
limit  to  the  time  of  the  representation  of  a  play.  This 
affords,  of  course,  no  excuse  when  matter  from  outside 
sources  has  been  brought  in,  thereby  necessitating  the 

322 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

rejection  of  much  of  the  original.  In  Cibber's  version 
of  '  Richard  III.'  not  only  were  entire  scenes  discarded 
—  such  for  instance  as  the  one  containing  the  dream  of 
Clarence  —  but  with  them  disappeared  any  number  of 
short  passages,  which  are  as  beautiful  on  the  poetic  side 
as  they  are  effective  on  the  dramatic.  Take  for  illus- 
tration the  sense  of  security  arising  from  high  birth 
and  family  connections  which  Gloucester,  when  warned 
to  beware  of  falling,  depicts  in  these  two  lines,  — 

"  Our  aery  buildeth  in  the  cedar's  top, 
And  dallies  with  the  wind  and  scorns  the  sun." 

It  is  fair  to  say  for  Cibber  that  the  very  plan  of  his 
stagey  version  rendered  the  rejection  of  scenes  con- 
taining such  passages  almost  a  necessity.  He  tried  to 
make  up  for  their  disappearance  by  introducing  extracts 
taken  from  other  plays.  Thus  the  announcement  to 
Henry  VI.,  while  in  the  Tower,  of  the  death  of  his  son, 
is  borrowed  from  the  announcement  in  'Henry  IV.'  of 
the  death  of  Hotspur  to  Northumberland.  Convey- 
ances of  this  sort  appear  only  as  patches  in  the  piece  in 
which  they  are  inserted.  Dramatically  the  fine  speeches 
found  in  Shakespeare  can  never  be  safely  wrenched  from 
the  characters  who  utter  them.  They  are  flowers  which 
lose  their  freshness  when  torn  from  the  branch  to  which 
they  belong ;  they  live  only  an  artificial  life  when  trans- 
planted to  another  soil  than  that  which  has  given  them 
birth. 

It  is  not  omission,  however,  with  which  most  fault 
is  to  be  found.  Rejection,  indeed,  on  the  most  exten- 
sive scale  can  be  regarded  with  actual  approval,  when 
once  we  contrast   it  with  the  havoc   which  was  made 

323 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

with  both  sentiment  and  verse  in  the  cases  where  the 
original  was  supposed  to  be  retained.  It  is  not,  for 
illustration,  within  the  power  of  hyperbole  to  charac- 
terize adequately  the  changes  which  Otway  made 
in  transplanting  the  balcony  scene  from  '  Romeo  and 
Juliet'  into  his  play  of  l  Caius  Marius.'  As  one 
specimen,  here  is  the  way  in  which  the  approach  of 
dawn  is  described.  Romeo,  it  is  to  be  borne  in  mind, 
has  been  exiled,  and  death  is  his  portion  if  he  be  found 
within  Verona's  walls.  Juliet,  in  the  parting  scene,  in 
urging  him  to  remain  still  longer,  declares  that  day  is 
not  near  at  hand,  and  that  it  is  the  song  of  no  bird 
of  early  morn  which  has  aroused  his  apprehensions  but 
that  of  the  nightingale.  In  his  answer  expressing 
the  contrary  view,  we  have  the  picture  of  the  rising 
sun  first  gilding  with  its  rays  the  mountain  tops,  and 
scattering  the  clouds  with  its  shafts  of  light,  before 
driving  the  darkness  from  the  plains  below.  The  same 
passage  occurs  in  Otway,  but  not  the  same.  The  day  is 
no  longer  pictured  standing  tiptoe  on  the  mountain 
tops  for  a  brief  moment  before  descending  into  the 
valleys.  On  the  contrary,  after  having  put  on  gay 
attire,  it  apparently  leaves  the  valleys  to  take  care  of 
themselves,  and  continues  to  stay  on  these  same  moun- 
tain tops  long  enough  to  hold  a  morning  reception,  at 
which  of  all  places  in  the  world  the  birds  are  repre- 
sented as  appearing.  Here  are  the  lines  as  they  are 
found  in  Otway,  — 

"  Oh !  't  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn, 
No  nightingale :  Look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Of  light  embroider  all  the  cloudy  east. 

324 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Upon  the  mountain  tops  sits  gaily  drest, 
Whilst  all  the  birds  bring  music  to  his  levee. 
I  must  be  gone  and  live  or  stay  and  die."  1 

All  that  is  good  in  this  passage  is  the  work  of  Shake- 
speare ;  all  that  is  bad  is  the  work  of  Otway.  Yet  the 
spoliation  which  he  accomplished  practically  excluded 
the  original  from  the  stage  till  about  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century. 

Despicable  as  such  alterations  are  —  and  many  as  bad 
could  be  cited  —  they  are  on  the  whole  surpassed  by- 
passages  in  the  revised  '  Lear, '  in  which  the  majestic 
lines  of  Shakespeare  are  joined  with  the  inanities  of 
Tate.  There  has  been  frequent  occasion  to  speak  of 
this  version  and  of  its  concocter.  Tate  indeed  has  been 
somewhat  concisely  and  comprehensively  described  as 
"the  author  of  the  worst  alterations  of  Shakespeare,  the 
worst  version  of  the  Psalms,  and  the  worst  continuation 
of  a  great  poem  extant."2  This  is  doing  him  alto- 
gether too  high  honor.  None  of  these  things  are  true. 
Tate  would  be  a  much  more  interesting  man  if  a  single 
one  of  them  were  true.  It  is  the  dead  level  of  his 
mediocrity  which  makes  misplaced  any  application  to  his 

1  For  the  sake  of  easy  comparison  the  passage,  as  found  in  Shake- 
speare, is  subjoined :  — 

"  It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn, 

No  nightingale:  look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east. 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops: 
I  must  be  gone  and  live  or  stay  and  die." 

2  By  Craik  in  his  '  History  of  English  Literature,'  vol.  ii.  p.  121 
(American  edition). 

325 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

attempts  of  the  superlative  employed.  Yet  the  descrip- 
tion is  so  far  justified  that  of  all  the  alterations  of  Shake- 
speare, his  of  '  Lear  '  is  on  the  whole  the  most  preten- 
tious and  the  most  feeble;  yet  owing  to  the  agencies 
which  have  been  mentioned  it  was  and  long  continued 
to  be  the  most  successful  with  the  public.  It  is  its 
popularity,  indeed,  which  has  made  his  version  exasper- 
ating; for  every  change  in  it  is  a  change  for  the  worse. 
This  is  true  both  of  the  characters  and  of  the  way  in 
which  they  express  themselves.  To  exemplify  the 
former,  Edmund  is  one  who  will  serve  as  an  illustration 
for  all.  In  Shakespeare  he  is  pictured  as  a  bold,  un- 
scrupulous,  intellectual,  and  able  villain :  Tate  thought 
fit  to  endow  him  further  with  the  vulgar  brutality  of  a 
ruffian  and  a  ravisher. 

It  is,  however,  in  the  forcible -feeble  way  in  which 
he  endeavored  to  add  to  the  power  of  passages  in  his 
original  that  Tate  shines.  One  or  two  extracts  will 
give  some  slight  conception  of  the  improvements  which 
certain  of  our  fathers  regarded  as  constituting  this 
alteration  a  work  of  higher  art  than  Shakespeare,  owing 
to  his  ignorance,  was  able  to  accomplish.  In  one  place 
in  the  original  Edmund,  the  natural  son  of  Gloucester, 
is  represented  as  imposing  upon  his  father's  credulity 
by  a  forged  letter  which  he  pretends  to  have  received 
from  Edgar,  the  legitimate  son.  In  it  the  writer  ap- 
pears anxious  for  the  death  of  his  parent  that  he  may 
the  sooner  succeed  to  his  inheritance.  When  Glou- 
cester reads  the  letter  he  is  utterly  confounded  by  its 
contents.  What  can  it  mean?  He  is  willing  to  give 
up   rank    and   estate    to   be   fully  satisfied,    and   asks 

326 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

Edmund  to  ascertain  the  exact  truth.  "  To  his  father 
that  so  tenderly  and  entirely  loves  him,"  is  his  startled 
comment.  "Heaven  and  earth!  Edmund,  seek  him 
out;  wind  me  into  him,  I  pray  you;  frame  the  business 
after  your  own  wisdom.  I  would  unstate  nryself  to  be 
in  a  due  resolution."  In  Tate's  version  this  natural 
expression  of  troubled  doubt,  anxiety,  surprise,  and 
sorrow  gives  way  to  this  extraordinary  manifestation 
of  parental  wrath:  — 

"  Edgar  to  write  this 
'Gainst  his  indulgent  father  !     Death  and  hell ! 
Fly,  Edmund,  seek  him  out,  wind  me  into  him, 
That  I  may  bite  the  traitor's  heart,  and  fold 
His  bleeding  entrails  on  my  vengeful  arm." 

This  cannot  be  surpassed,  but  it  is  approached  by  the 
exclamatory  utterances  with  which  Lear  himself  greets 
the  proposal  of  his  daughters  that  his  retinue  shall  be 
dismissed,  and  that  he  shall  henceforth  receive  only  the 
attendance  of  their  servants.  It  is  in  these  words  that 
he  gives  vent  to  his  feelings :  — 

"  Blood  !  fire !  here  —  leprosies  and  bluest  plagues  ! 
Room,  room  for  hell  to  belch  her  horrors  up 
And  drench  the  Circes  in  a  stream  of  fire ; 
Hark,  how  the  internals  echo  to  my  rage 
Their  whips  and  snakes." 

After  this  we  need  no  commentary  to  understand  what 
Shakespeare  meant  when  he  spoke  of  " 'Ercles' vein," 
"a  tyrant's  vein,"  or  "a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make, 
all  split." 

In  this  version  the  scene  of  the  extrusion  of  the  eyes 
is  retained.  It  is  unquestionably  terrible ;  still  it  is  so 
wrought   into   the  texture  of   the   play  that   it  would 

327 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

require  a  genius  almost  equal  to  Shakespeare's  to  re- 
move it  and  yet  produce  the  required  effect.  But  Tate 
felt  it  incumbent  to  add  irony  to  the  horror.  Regan, 
after  revealing  to  Gloucester  how  he  had  been  betrayed 
by  his  son,  draws  forth  the  papers  which  contain  what 
she  calls  his  treason.  She  asks  the  blinded  man  to  read 
them,  and  tauntingly  adds,  — 

"If  thy  eyes  fail  thee,  call  for  spectacles." 

Gloucester  in  turn  does  not  suffer  himself  to  be  out- 
done in  these  exhibitions.  Delightful  in  quite  another 
way  are  the  concluding  lines  of  his  soliloquy  in  which 
he  pictures  how  in  the  future  life  his  loss  of  sight  will 
be  recompensed  a  thousandfold.  After  announcing  his 
intention  —  which  in  Shakespeare  though  implied  is 
never  asserted  —  of  throwing  himself  from  the  summit 
of  some  precipice  and  dashing  out  his  life  on  the  ragged 
flint  beneath,  he  adds,  — ■ 

"  Whence  my  freed  soul  to  her  bright  sphere  shall  fly, 
Through  boundless  orbs  eternal  regions  spy, 
And  like  the  sun  be  all  one  glorious  eye." 

After  familiarizing  ourselves  with  extracts,  such  as 
these  which  have  been  quoted,  we  feel  that  Tate  has 
claims  upon  us.  Things  so  atrociously  bad  arouse  feel- 
ings quite  different  from  that  depressing  ennui  which 
attends  the  re-reading  of  nearly  all  other  Shakespearean 
alterations. 

It  is,  however,  the  remodelling  of  '  The  Merchant  of 
Venice '  which  will  best  exemplify  the  nature  of  the 
changes  that  were  made  in  these  adaptations,  and  will 
furnish  the  best  means  of  contrasting  the  art  of  Shake- 

328 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

speare  with  the  art  of  the  men  who  regarded  him  as 
merely  a  barbarian  of  genius.  A  detailed  description 
of  certain  features  of  this  one  piece  will  therefore  give 
a  fairly  reasonable  conception  of  the  characteristics  of 
all.  It  was  the  work  of  Lord  Lansdowne,  or,  as  his 
name  was  at  the  time  of  the  production  of  the  play, 
George  Granville.  His  version,  under  the  title  of  '  The 
Jew  of  Venice,'  though  not  often  played,  met  with 
general  favor.  It  not  merely  long  held  the  stage  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  original,  but  it  was  spoken  of  in  high 
terms  by  those  who  assumed  to  lay  down  the  laws  of 
taste.  Something  of  this  may  have  been  due  to  the 
social  position  of  the  adapter;  but,  after  all,  the  views 
expressed  must  have  had  behind  them  a  very  genuine 
belief.  Gildon  tells  us  that  Shakespeare's  play  had 
received  considerable  advantage  from  the  pen  of  Gran- 
ville. Dennis,  in  dedicating  to  him  his  '  Essay  on  the 
Genius  and  Writings  of  Shakespeare,'  said  that  such 
a  treatise  could  not  be  so  properly  addressed  as  to  the 
man  who  best  understood  Shakespeare  and  who  had 
most  improved  him.  This  was  certainly  a  general  senti- 
ment, if  not  the  general  sentiment;  and  from  its  exist- 
ence we  can  get  a  pretty  just  conception  of  the  value 
of  much  of  the  criticism  which  was  then  applied  to  the 
works  of  Shakespeare. 

Lansdowne's  version  was  published  in  1701,  the  year 
of  its  production  on  the  stage.  His  advertisement  to 
the  reader  was  in  the  happiest  and  most  suggestive 
style  of  the  criticism  which  was  in  vogue  during  the 
half-century  following  the  Restoration.  The  writer 
started  out  with  the  statement  that,  as  the  foundations 

u2D 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

of  the  comedy  were  liable  to  some  objections,  it  might 
be  a  matter  of  wonder  that  any  one  should  make  choice 
of  it  in  order  to  bestow  upon  it  the  labor  which  had 
been  expended.  The  judicious  reader,  however,  would 
not  be  misled  by  these  specious  appearances.  He  would 
find  in  this  old  play  so  many  manly  and  moral  graces 
in  the  characters  and  sentiments  that  he  would  excuse 
the  story  for  the  sake  of  the  ornamental  parts.  Lans- 
downe  then  went  on  to  justify  the  task  of  altering, 
which  he  had  undertaken,  by  the  examples  of  the  great 
men  who  had  made  attempts  of  this  same  kind.  These 
great  men  were  Waller,  the  Earl  of  Rochester,  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  Dryden,  D'Avenant,  and  the 
two  laureates  —  Shad  well  and  Tate  —  who  had  suc- 
ceeded Dryden.  With  the  exception  of  the  last- 
mentioned,  it  was  a  pretty  sorry  list  of  authors  to  bring 
forward  in  defence  of  the  practice  of  remodelling,  or,  as 
it  was  then  called,  of  restoring  old  plays.  He  further 
professed  to  be  anxious  that  nothing  should  be  imputed 
to  Shakespeare  that  was  unworthy  of  him.  Accordingly 
he  put  between  inverted  commas  the  lines  which  were 
purely  of  his  own  composition,  though  he  observed  that 
in  these  additions  he  had  taken  care  to  imitate  the 
same  fashion  of  period  and  turn  of  style  which  the  origi- 
nal possessed.  The  fact  it  was  well  to  state;  if  unmen- 
tioned,  it  would  have  pretty  surely  escaped  attention. 
"She  robs  her  father  with  a  Christian  grace,"  is  a 
remark  about  Jessica  which  he  puts  in  the  mouth  of 
Gratiano.  It  is  the  only  line  of  his  additions  which  is 
worth  quoting,  and  it  conveys  a  very  untrue  impression 
of  his  own  thefts. 

330 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

The  prologue  to  this  adaptation  was  written  by  Bevil 
Higgons,  a  poet  of  about  the  same  grade  as  Lansdowne, 
of  whom  he  was  a  kinsman.  It  was  of  the  nature  of  a 
dialogue  between  the  ghosts  of  Shakespeare  and  Dry- 
den,  both  of  whom  rise  crowned  with  laurel.  They 
indulge  in  elaborate  compliments  to  each  other,  but  it 
is  not  till  he  comes  to  speak  of  his  adapter  that  the 
former,  most  complaisant  of  spirits,  rises  to  eulogy.  It 
is  in  this  way  he  comments  upon  the  work  which  has 
been  done  upon  his  play:  — 

"  These  scenes  in  their  rough  native  dress  were  mine, 
But  now  improved  with  nobler  lustre  shine; 
The  first  rude  sketches  Shakespeare's  pencil  drew, 
But  all- the  shining  master  strokes  are  new. 
This  play,  ye  critics,  shall  your  fury  stand, 
Adorned  and  rescued  by  a  faultless  baud." 

It  is  evident  from  the  lines  given  to  him,  in  which 
he  specifically  mentions  himself,  that  for  the  moment 
Shakespeare  had  lost  the  sense  of  his  art,  and  spoke  the 
sentiments  of  Higgons,  and  not  his  own.  It  would 
seem  as  if  it  must  have  required  a  good  deal  of  courage 
on  the  part  of  the  adapter  to  permit  a  prologue  to 
be  recited  or  printed,  containing  adulation  so  gross. 
Every  one  indeed  can  understand  that  the  play  of  '  The 
Merchant  of  Venice  '  is  based  upon  two  improbable  or 
rather  impossible  stories  —  at  least  impossible  in  any 
world  with  which  the  modern  man  is  acquainted.  The 
distinguishing  characteristic  of  this  alteration  was  to 
retain  of  the  original  all  that  could  offend  the  mere 
understanding,  and  either  leave  out  or  deform  a  large 
part  of  it  that  appealed  to  the  feelings.     The  plot  as 

331 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

retold  continued  to  be  as  improbable,  but  ceased  to  be 
exciting. 

The  changes  that  were  made  in  the  alteration  were 
on  a  very  extensive  scale.  Lines  are  taken  from  their 
proper  place  or  proper  speaker  and  put  in  the  mouth  of 
some  other  character.  The  masque,  which  Shakespeare 
contemplated  but  left  out,  was  supplied.  It  was  en- 
titled '  Peleus  and  Thetis, '  and  in  it  the  lover  in  the 
true  style  of  the  heroic  plays  of  a  somewhat  earlier 
period  defies  Jupiter  himself,  and  with  the  aid  of 
Prometheus  fairly  bullies  the  god  of  thunder  into  aban- 
doning his  designs  upon  the  bride.  One  would  be 
glad  to  have  had  Shylock's  opinion  of  this  entertain- 
ment, at  which  he  is  represented  as  being  present,  if 
Shakespeare  could  only  have  returned  to  earth  long 
enough  to  have  given  it  just  expression.  This  is  the 
only  addition  of  much  length  to  the  play.  Omissions, 
as  might  be  expected,  are  numerous.  Not  only  are 
speeches  rejected  or  cut  down,  but  a  large  number  of 
the  characters  are  dropped.  Naturally  the  Gobbos, 
father  and  son,  would  disappear  according  to  the  ap- 
proved canons  of  taste  then  in  vogue.  These  could  not 
be  expected  to  tolerate  personages  of  so  low  a  position 
in  a  scene  generally  so  stately.  The  other  extreme  is 
also  discarded.  Neither  the  prince  of  Morocco  nor 
the  prince  of  Aragon  is  retained.  There  are,  besides, 
alterations  peculiarly  absurd  in  the  speeches,  sometimes 
due  to  the  adapter's  lack  of  taste,  sometimes  to  his 
lack  of  knowledge.  As  an  illustration  of  the  latter, 
Granville  changed  the  words  in  the  trial  scene  with 
which  in  Shakespeare  Shylock  apostrophizes  Portia :  — 

332 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

"  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel ! 
O  wise  young  judge,  bow  do  I  honor  thee  !  " 

Here  the  reference  is  to  the  story  of  Susanna  and  the 
elders,  as  told  in  the  apocryphal  scriptures  of  the  Old 
Testament.  In  them  Daniel,  described  as  "a  young 
youth,"  is  called  to  a  seat  on  the  tribunal,  there 
examines  the  elders,  convicts  them  of  false  witness,  and 
saves  the  innocent.  It  is  accordingly  a  peculiarly  ap- 
propriate designation  to  apply  to  the  disguised  Portia ; 
for  it  is  the  youthful  appearance  of  the  judge  that  sug- 
gests the  comparison  to  Shylock.  In  Granville's  ver- 
sion it  reads  as  follows :  — 

"  A  Daniel,  a  Daniel :  so  ripe  in  wisdom, 
And  so  young  in  years!     A  second  Solomon." 

These  words,  with  the  addition  of  the  reference  to 
Solomon,  show  that  Granville  had  no  conception  of 
what  was  in  Shakespeare's  mind  when  he  applied  to 
the  youthful  judge,  who  was  determining  the  case,  the 
name  of  Daniel.  He  is  perhaps  not  so  much  to  blame ; 
it  is  an  ignorance  which  he  has  shared  with  many  of  the 
commentators. 

All  this  mutilation  would  not  have  been  so  bad,  had 
there  been  any  adherence  to  Shakespeare's  art  in  what 
was  preserved  from  the  wreck.  For  in  many  ways 
'  The  Merchant  of  Venice  '  is  worked  up  with  a  care 
that  will  escape  the  attention  of  every  one  who  does  not 
subject  its  details  to  close  scrutiny,  no  matter  how 
much  he  may  be  impressed  with  its  general  effect. 
The  keynote  of  the  story  is  contained  in  the  opening 
lines.     It  is  the  presentiment  of  approaching  disaster, 

333 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

haunting  the  heart  of  Antonio,  that  foreshadows  the 
tragical  situation  about  which  the  interest  of  the  play  is 
to  revolve.  In  the  very  first  words  of  the  first  scene  he 
sounds  the  ominous  note  of  impending  evil :  — 

"  In  sooth  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad : 
It  wearies  me  ;  you  say  it  wearies  you ; 
But  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  't  is  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me, 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself." 

At  the  very  outset  therefore  we  meet  with  the  merchant 
prince's  anticipation  of  calamity,  coming  from  a  quarter 
he  cannot  tell  where,  presenting  itself  in  a  form  he 
cannot  imagine  what;  but,  however  vague  in  shape  or 
misty  in  outline,  it  has  already  been  sufficient  to  cast 
a  shadow  over  his  life.  It  is  the  artist-like  care  with 
which  Shakespeare,  in  the  midst  of  the  gayety  of  the 
opening  scenes,  prepares  us  for  the  horrible  reality  that 
is  speedily  to  confront  the  chief  actors  in  the  drama, 
which  removes  the  improbability  of  the  story  as  a  story 
entirely  out  of  our  thoughts,  and  fixes  them  with  almost 
painful  absorption  upon  the  incidents  that  occur,  with 
the  fullest  belief  on  our  part  in  their  consonancy  with 
the  truth  of  life.  All  this  skilfully  wrought  foretoken- 
inn-  of  what  is  to  follow  is  discarded  in  the  adaptation. 
It  was  not  understood,  and  therefore  it  was  deemed 
unnecessary  or  inappropriate. 

Still  the  utter  lack  of  comprehension  of  the  require- 
ments of  the  highest  art  is  most  conspicuous  in  the 
changes  which  were  made  in  the  judicial  scene  in  the 
fourth  act.      With  this  part  most  of  us  have  become  so 

334 


ALTERATIONS  OF   SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

well  acquainted,  at  an  age  when  we  feel  rather  than 
reflect,  that  the  very  familiarity  blunts  our  perception 
of  the  extraordinary  skill  which  has  been  displayed  in 
the  whole  conduct  of  the  trial,  the  almost  impossibility 
of  altering'  a  word  or  of  adding  or  omitting  a  line  with- 
out  impairing  the  {lawlessness  of  the  perfect  whole. 
For  the  task  set  before  the  poet  was  one  of  peculiar 
difficulty;  it  is  his  triumph  that  neither  reader  nor 
hearer  observes  how  great  a  difficulty  it  is.  For  in 
spite  of  the  evil  repute  in  which  the  Jewish  race  had 
been  held  for  centuries,  Shakespeare  could  not  but 
have  felt  that  in  following  the  story  out  to  its  conclu- 
sion —  a  conclusion  which  was  probably  as  well  known 
to  the  audience  as  to  himself  —  he  could  hardly  fail  to 
outrage  to  a  certain  extent  our  latent  natural  sense  of 
justice  by  a  result  which  purports  to  be  in  strictest 
accordance  with  justice.  Whatever  may  have  been  the 
guilt  and  bloodthirstiness  of  Shylock,  one  cannot  get 
entirely  over  the  impression  that  he  is  a  hardly  used 
man.  In  the  matter  of  deriving  profit  from  money 
lent,  he  is  a  long  way  ahead  of  Antonio,  who  is  noth- 
ing more  than  the  ignorant  upholder  of  a  sentimental 
notion  about  the  taking  of  interest,  the  prevalence  of 
which  produces  the  very  evils  it  ostentatiously  professes 
to  deplore;  and  it  must  be  remembered  that  tin'  taking 
of  one  per  cent  would  have  been  then  reckoned  an 
offence  against  the  moral  law  as  well  as  the  taking  of 
a  hundred.  In  the  pursuance  of  his  philanthropic 
zeal  against  usury  he  lias  accordingly  treated  the  Jew 
as  a  dog,  as  a  cur  of  the  meanest  kind;  lie  lias  in  par- 
ticular endeavored  to  convince  him  of  the  error  of  his 

335 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

ways  in  the  usual  manner  then  adopted  by  Christians 
with  the  chosen  people,  that  is,  by  spitting  upon  him, 
buffeting  him,  and  kicking  him. 

That  a  man  subjected  for  years  to  treatment  of  this 
sort  should  be  ready  at  the  proper  moment  to  make  a 
lively  exhibition  of  the  Christian  graces  seems  to  have 
occurred  only  to  critics  of  Shakespeare ;  it  assuredly 
never  occurred  to  Shakespeare  himself.  It  was,  there- 
fore, all-important,  from  the  point  of  view  of  art,  that 
the  malevolence  of  the  Jew  should  be  brought  out  in 
this  trial  scene  in  as  impressive  a  manner  as  possible. 
To  the  production  of  this  effect  the  poet  paid  special 
heed.  Again  and  again  is  Shylock  entreated  to  accept 
the  money  due  him.  Not  the  mere  amount  only,  but 
three  times  the  amount ;  not  only  three  times,  but 
practically  any  amount  he  chooses  to  demand.  Again 
and  again  does  Portia  press  upon  him  the  cancellation 
of  the  bond.  Again  and  again  she  brings  up  the  ques- 
tion of  releasing  the  merchant  now  in  his  power.  By 
fine  but  steadily  increasing  gradations  the  refusal  in 
each  case  is  made  more  emphatic.  Appeals  to  his 
clemency,  appeals  to  his  avarice  are  alike  in  vain.  It 
is  by  these  repeated  offers  and  repeated  denials  that  the 
malignity  of  Shylock  forces  itself  upon  the  apprehen- 
sion of  the  dullest  of  us  all.  It  is  our  consciousness 
of  this  which  alone  reconciles  us  to  the  result  of  the 
trial,  which  in  one  sense  is  an  utter  travesty  of  justice. 

No  feeling  of  this  sort  will  be  awakened  by  Lans- 
downe's  version.  It  has  in  one  way  an  interest  of  its 
own,  because  it  enables  us  to  see  how  slight  are  the 
changes,  how  few  are  the  omissions  which  are  required 

336 


ALTERATIONS   OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 

to  convert  a  high-wrought  scene  into  commonplace, 
which  is  always  crude  and  sometimes  offensive.  The 
apparent  leaning  of  the  tribunal  at  the  outset  to  the 
justice  of  Shylock's  plea,  heightening  by  contrast 
the  dramatic  effect  of  the  subsequent  action,  is  sen- 
sibly lessened  in  this  alteration.  To  compensate  for 
this  abatement,  Portia,  at  the  end,  casts  off  the  judicial 
dignity,  which  in  the  original  she  never  for  a  moment 
lays  aside,  and  hastens  to  exhibit  the  feelings  of  a  partisan 
and  to  proclaim  herself  such  openly  and  even  offen- 
sively. The  railing  invectives  of  Gratiano,  thoroughly 
in  keeping  with  the  character,  are  transferred  to  Bas- 
sanio,  in  whose  mouth  they  are  inappropriate  and  un- 
becoming ;  while  the  dignity  of  the  whole  scene  is 
impaired  and  indeed  almost  destroyed  by  the  cheap 
expedients  of  the  latter  in  seeking  to  interfere  with  the 
processes  of  the  court,  by  making  offers  of  self-sacrifice, 
which  he  must  know  cannot  be  accepted,  and  by  attempt- 
ing acts  of  violence  which  he  must  know  equally  well 
cannot  prevail.  Very  little,  in  truth,  of  the  skilful  art 
of  the  original  has  been  preserved  in  the  version  of  the 
trial  scene  which  Lansdowne  perpetrated.  It  is  through- 
out hurried  and  crude.  The  almost  agonizing  intensity 
of  feeling,  which  slowly  but  steadily  deepens  and  broadens 
on  both  sides,  is  no  longer  seen  or  felt.  The  repeated 
offers  and  repeated  refusals  to  accept  anything  that  will 
stand  in  the  way  of  the  accomplishment  of  revenge  no 
longer  force  themselves  upon  the  attention.  These 
variations  would  of  themselves  settle  the  question  of 
art,  if  there  were  a  question  in  regard  to  it,  inde- 
pendent of  the  genius  of  the  writers. 
22  337 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

But  even  more  pronounced  is  the  difference  of  light 
in  which  the  Jew  appears  in  the  two  productions.     In 
the  Shylock  of  Shakespeare  is  concentrated  the  wrath 
of  a  race  turning  upon  its  oppressors,  —  a  race  conscious 
of  the  importance  of  the  part  it  has  played  in  the  past, 
with  its  long  line  of  lawgivers  and  prophets  to  which 
all  nations  turn,  equally  conscious  of  the  misery  it  has 
endured  and  is  continuing  to  endure  in  the  present. 
As  it  has  been  great  in  suffering,  so  will  it  be  great  in 
vengeance.     Entreaties  are  useless ;    threats  are   mere 
empty   breath.      Pity    will   not    soften    the    heart   nor 
obloquy  cause  it  to  yield.     In  Lansdowne,  on  the  con- 
trary, Shylock  is  no  longer  exalted  by  wrath.     He  is 
not  indeed  a  comic  character,  as  has  been  so  persist- 
ently asserted ;  but  he  is  essentially  a  vulgar  one.     He 
exhibits  nothing  of  that  sublimity  of  hate  which  awes 
us  by  its  intensity,  and  gives  to  malignity  a  character 
almost  of  grandeur.     Though   he  feels  antipathy,  his 
antipathy  is  purely  of  the  nature  of  a  business  invest- 
ment.    He  is  willing  to  sacrifice  the  wealth  he  holds 
dear  in  order  to  free  himself   from  the  further  inter- 
position of  a  man  who  has  hindered  him  in  his  gains, 
thwarted  him  in  his  bargains,  and  laughed  at  his  losses. 
He  is  not,  as  in  Shakespeare,  the  representative  of  the 
long  martyrdom  of  a  race.     He  is  nothing  but  the  Jew 
of  the  huckster's  stall,  of  the   old-clothes'  shop,  whose 
ideal  in  life  is  a  profit  of  at  least  two  hundred  per  cent, 
and  whose  Messiah  is  desired  to  come,  not  to  effect  the 
conquest  of  the  world,  but  to  give  his  people  the  posses- 
sion of  its  traffic. 


338 


CHAPTER   IX 

CONFLICTING    EIGHTEENTH-CENTUEY   VIEWS 
ABOUT   SHAKESPEAKE 

To  the  men  of  modern  times  there  is  something 
very  amusing,  when  it  is  not  exasperating,  in  the 
attitude  exhibited  by  the  eighteenth  century  towards 
the  Elizabethan  age.  There  was,  to  be  sure,  nothing 
new  about  it  then ;  it  had  begun  to  be  displayed 
with  the  beginning  of  the  Restoration  period.  Strength 
and  force,  it  was  always  confessed,  had  been  shown 
by  the  writers  of  the  past ;  but  it  was  Charles  who, 
on  his  return  from  exile,  had  brought  with  him  correct- 
ness and  grace  and  refinement.  To  use  the  language 
of  Dryden,  he  had  cured  the  rankness  of  the  soil 
with  the  rules  of  husbandry ;  lie  had  tamed  the  rude- 
ness of  the  stage,  and  had  imparted  to  it  manners  and 
decorum  ;  he  had,  in  fine,  endowed  boisterous  English 
wit  with  art.1  But  it  was  not  until  the  so-called 
Augustan  age  was  in  full  bloom  that  men  rose  to 
the  full  consciousness  of  their  superiority  to  their 
fathers.  The  audience  which  Shakespeare  addressed, 
it  was  then  held,  was  the  most  incapable  of  judgment 
of  any  that  ever  existed.  It  was  made  up  of 
the  lowest  and  the  meanest  of  the  populace.  It  was 
the    tastes   and    the    wishes   of    this   class   which    the 

1  Epistle  to  Congreve. 
339 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

dramatic  writer  was  compelled  to  consult.  This  is 
the  view  regularly  expressed  during  the  whole  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  It  is  what  Gildon  tells  us 
in  the  early  part  of  it.1  In  the  latter  part  of  it  we 
find  the  same  assertions  made  by  Mrs.  Montagu,  who 
had  put  herself  forward  as  the  champion  of  Shakespeare 
against  Voltaire. 

The  absurdity  of  this  self-satisfied  complacency  of 
the  eighteenth  century  comes  home  to  us  with  peculiar 
force  the  moment  we  stop  to  contrast  the  men  who 
stand  out  as  the  conspicuous  representatives  of  its 
political  and  intellectual  life  with  the  corresponding 
characters  of  the  period  to  which  it  felt  and  expressed 
superiority.  It  approaches  the  comic  to  find  the  petty 
writers  of  an  inferior  time  gravely  commenting  upon 
the  barbarism  of  an  age  in  which  had  flourished  Raleigh, 
Sidney,  Spenser,  Bacon,  Jonson,  Shakespeare, —  to 
name  some  of  the  greatest, —  beside  a  whole  host  of 
writers  who,  while  falling  below  the  grade  of  the 
highest,  were  nevertheless  distinctively  men  of  genius. 
Yet  this  attitude  of  condescension  was  taken  in  all 
sincerity  and  seriousness.  The  men  who  assumed  it 
had  of  course  no  knowledge  of  the  period  they  were 
criticising.  There  was  accordingly  displayed  by  them 
a  total  ignorance  of  the  predecessors  of  Shakespeare. 
He  was  represented  as  having  been  the  one  to  create 
the  stage,  and  his  advocates  constantly  dwelt  upon 
the  barbarism  of  his  times  as  a  palliation,  if  not  a 
complete  excuse  for  his  conceded  faults.  The  prologue 
to  Dryden's    alteration   of  'Troilus   and   Cressida'   is 

1  The  Complete  Art  of  Poetry,  vol.  i.  p.  64. 
340 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

supposed  to  be  spoken  by  the  ghost  of  the  great 
dramatist.  It  is  in  these  lines  that  he  delivers  a 
common  opinion  then  entertained  about  himself,  — 

"  Untaught,  unpractised,  in  a  barbarous  age, 
I  found  not,  but  created  first  the  stage. 
And  if  I  drained  no  Greek  or  Latin  store, 
'T  was  that  my  own  abundance  gave  me  more. 
On  foreign  trade  I  needed  not  rely, 
Like  fruitful  Britain,  rich  without  supply." 

It  was  this  belief  in  the  rudeness  of  Shakespeare's  age 
and  the  inevitable  resulting  rudeness  of  himself,  which 
had  brought  about  the  mangling  of  his  plays  under 
the  honest  conviction  that  the  alterations  to  which 
they  were  subjected  were  improvements.  This  same 
belief  led  in  time  to  the  development  among  those 
holding  it  of  divergent  opinions  in  regard  to  his  art. 
By  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century  we  become 
aware  of  the  prevalence  of  two  estimates  of  Shakespeare, 
which  though  not  diametrically  opposite  are  yet  far 
from  being  in  harmony.  The  modern  view  which 
regards  him  as  an  exponent  of  true  art  was  evidently 
even  then  in  being  ;  but  it  had  nowhere  any  author- 
itative expression.  So  far  as  literature  was  concerned, 
it  lurked  unseen  and  unheard.  None  the  less  was 
it  potential  with  that  mass  of  men  who  knew  nothing 
about  the  rules  then  so  much  insisted  upon,  and  cared 
less.  They  remained  faithful  to  the  poet  during  all 
variations  of  taste,  and  amid  the  chanp-insr  fortunes 
of  critical  controversy.  Through  them  he  steadily 
passed  all  competitors  in  the  race  for  popularity. 
Though  they  left  no  record  of  their  opinions  in  poem 

341 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

or  pamphlet  or  book,  they  were  so  numerous  that 
deference  had  to  be  paid  to  their  feelings,  even  when 
contempt  was  expressed  for  their  judgment. 

The  contrasted  attitude  of  mind  of  what  may  be  called 
the  more  or  less  educated  laity  and  the  critical  clergy 
is  unconsciously  exemplified  in  the  different  views 
recorded  by  Edward  Phillips,  the  nephew  of  Milton,  in 
his  volume,  published  in  1675,  dealing  with  poets  and 
poetry.  In  the  body  of  the  work  Shakespeare  is  spoken 
of  as  "the  glory  of  the  English  stage."  Others  might 
pretend  to  a  more  exact  decorum  and  economy,  never 
any  one  expressed  a  more  lofty  and  tragic  height ;  never 
any  one  represented  nature  more  purely  to  the  life. 
Even  when  the  polishments  of  art  are  wanting,  he  was 
declared  to  please  with  a  certain  wild  and  native  ele- 
gance.1 It  has  been  common  to  hold  Milton  responsible 
for  the  appearance  in  the  work  of  these  opinions.  There 
is  as  little  ground  for  such  a  contention  as  there  is  evi- 
dence. The  sentiments  here  expressed  were  by  no  means 
unusual.  They  were  those  of  the  men  who  at  that  time 
paid  little  or  no  heed  to  the  observance  of  dramatic 
rules.  We  are  apt  to  get  a  wrong  estimate  of  the  number 
of  these,  because  the  many  never  troubled  themselves 
to  record  their  faith,  while  the  few  were  generally 
careful  to  express  their  dissent ;  and  it  is  the  views 
alone  of  these  latter,  consequently,  that  reach  us.  In 
tins  instance  they  are  distinctly  conveyed  in  the  preface 
to  the  work.  There  we  are  informed  that  the  unfiled 
expression  of  the  dramatist  and  his  rambling  and  indi- 
gested fancies  are  the  laughter  of  the  critical. 

1  Theatrum  Poetarum  (1675),  p.  194. 
342 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

It  cannot  be  repeated  too  often  that  there  is  no 
support  for  the  assumption  that  such  wholesale  denun- 
ciation of  Shakespeare  as  occurs  in  Rymer  ever  repre- 
sented the  sentiments  of  either  a  large  or  an  influential 
body  of  men.  It  was  at  best  nothing  but  the  expression 
of  the  prejudice  and  incapacity  of  a  few  individuals. 
It  never  exerted  any  appreciable  influence  upon  the 
estimate  taken  of  the  dramatist.  But  in  the  history 
of  critical  controversy  as  distinguished  from  that  of 
popular  opinion,  the  existence  of  two  classes  holding 
divergent  opinions  about  his  dramatic  art  is  distinctly 
recognizable  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
During  the  whole  of  the  century  following  they  are  both 
constantly  in  evidence  and  often  in  collision.  To  some 
extent  too  they  acted  and  reacted  upon  each  other. 
The  one  of  these  which  is  first  to  be  considered,  was 
the  one  which  was  most  prominent  at  the  outset.  In 
the  world  of  purely  professional  criticism  it  may  be  said 
to  have  had  then  nearly  absolute  sway.  It  did  not  — 
at  least  in  its  own  opinion  —  disparage  Shakespeare. 
It  took  of  him  what  may  be  termed  the  inspired- 
barbarian  view.  It  went  upon  the  assumption  that 
while  his  genius  was  vast,  it  worked  independently  of 
the  rules  of  the  highest  art.  Accordingly  its  manifesta- 
tions were  never  kept  under  the  restraints  of  that  chas- 
tened propriety  of  sentiment  and  diction  which  by 
common  consent  of  eighteenth-century  writers  had  be- 
come the  distinguishing  trait  of  the  productions  of  their 
own  age.  In  consequence  the  judicious  reader  was  alter- 
nately delighted  and  disgusted  with  what  he  met  in  the 
poet.     This   estimate,  widely   held   and  long   accepted 

343 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

as  indisputably  true  by  many  critics,  and  at  one  period 
perhaps  by  the  majority  of  them,  is  best  summed  up  in 
an  epigram  which  appeared  in  a  magazine  of  1745. 
The  couplet,  which  bore  as  its  title  the  simple  heading 
"  On  Shakespeare,"  runs  as  follows  :  — 

"  His  faults,  or  virtues  who  could  justly  tell  ? 
No  mortal  higher  soared,  nor  lower  fell. " 1 

Opinions  of  this  sort  can  be  found  in  abundance 
during  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  which  followed 
the  Restoration.  It  is  the  view  taken  by  Dryden  in  his 
earlier  criticism,  in  which,  while  conceding  the  genius 
of  Shakespeare,  he  was  more  disposed  than  he  was  at  a 
later  period  to  lay  stress  upon  his  imputed  faults.  In 
the  epilogue  to  the  second  part  of  'The  Conquest 
of  Granada,'  brought  out  in  1670,  he  had  maintained 
that  wit  had  readied  a  hio-her  decree  of  refinement  than 
in  the  previous  age,  that  the  humor  of  the  Elizabethan 
drama  was  mechanic,  its  conversation  was  low,  and  its 
love  was  mean ;  that  the  writers  of  that  period  had  got 
their  fame  by  being  first-comers  and  had  kept  it  since 
by  being  dead.  The  criticism  was  directed  mainly 
against  Jonson,  but  it  stirred  up  all  the  believers  in 
the  earlier  stage.  Dryden  defended  himself  in  a  prose 
pamphlet,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had  this  to  say 
about  the  greatest  of  the  Elizabethans.  "  Shakespeare," 
he  observed,  "  who  many  times  has  written  better  than 
any  poet  in  any  language,  is  yet  so  far  from  writing  wit 
always,  or  expressing  that  wit  according  to  the  dignity 
of  the  subject,  that  he  writes  in  many  places  below  the 

1  Gentleman's  Magazine,  vol.  xv.  p.  213,  April,  1745. 

344 


CONFLICTING   EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  VIEWS 

dullest  writer  of  ours  or  any  precedent  age.  Never  did 
any  author  precipitate  himself  from  such  heights  of 
thought  to  such  low  expressions  as  he  often  does.  He 
is  the  very  Janus  of  poets :  he  wears  almost  everywhere 
two  faces ;  and  you  have  scarce  begun  to  admire  the  one 
ere  you  despise  the  other." 1  To  the  same  effect  spoke 
Crowne,  a  few  years  later $  in  dedicating  to  Sir  Charles 
Sedley  his  adaptation  of  '  Henry  VI.'  "  Though  Shake- 
speare," he  wrote,  "  be  generally  very  delightful,  he  is 
not  so  always.  His  volume  is  all  uphill  and  down. 
Paradise  was  never  more  pleasant  than  some  parts  of 
it,  nor  Ireland  and  Greenland  colder  and  more  unin- 
habitable than  others." 

Criticism  of  this  sort  we  have  had  occasion  to  see 
constantly  expressed  or  implied  in  the  writings  of 
Dennis  and  Gildon.  The  latter  assures  us  that  when 
Shakespeare  does  not  follow  the  rules,  he  falls  into  such 
monstrous  absurdities  that  nothing  but  his  uncommon 
excellences  in  other  parts  could  prevail  with  men  of 
judgment  and  good  sense  to  endure  his  works.2  This 
is  a  view  which  finds  frequent  expression  through  the 
whole  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Bolingbroke  told 
Voltaire  that  the  English  had  not  one  good  tragedy 
as  a  whole ;  the  merit  of  the  best  of  them  lay  in 
detached  scenes.  Chesterfield  held  an  opinion  not  es- 
sentially different.  Joseph  Warton  opens  some  obser- 
vations on  'The  Tempest'  with  the  remark  that 
Shakespeare  exhibited  more  numerous  examples  of  ex- 
cellences and  faults  of  every  kind  than  can  perhaps  be 

1  Defence  of  the  Epilogue  to  the  Conquest  of  Granada. 

2  Complete  Art  of  Poetry,  vol.  i.  p.  99. 

345 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

discovered  in  any  other  author.1  Later  he  observed 
that  Shakespeare,  Corneille,  and  Racine  are  the  only 
modern  writers  of  tragedy  that  could  be  opposed  to 
.iEschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides;  but  he  added  that 
the  first  was  an  author  so  uncommon  and  so  eccentric 
that  he  can  scarcely  be  tried  by  dramatic  rules.2  Years 
afterward  Cumberland  repeated  the  same  old  story. 
According  to  him,  Shakespeare  was  an  author  whose 
excellences  are  beyond  comparison  and  whose  errors  are 
beyond  number.3 

This  view  had  supporters  down  to  the  very  close  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  It  was  perhaps  most  violent 
in  its  utterances  at  the  very  time  it  was  on  the  point  of 
falling  into  disrepute.  The  opinions  expressed  by  those 
who  held  it  ran  naturally  to  extremes,  and  were  favor- 
able or  unfavorable  according  as  the  critic  was  shocked 
most  by  the  absurdities  of  Shakespeare  or  impressed  by 
diis  counterbalancing  merits.  His  steadily  increasing 
popularity  during  the  century,  shown  by  the  increasing 
number  of  revivals  of  his  plays,  was  very  distressing  to 
many  members  of  this  class.  Their  feelings  are  fully 
portrayed  in  the  invective  against  Garrick  and  the 
stage  which  Goldsmith  introduced  into  his  'Inquiry 
into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe.' 
These  revived  plays  are  there  termed  hashes  of  absurd- 
ity which  disgusted  our  ancestors  even  in  an  age  of 
ignorance.  They  were  full  of  forced  humor,  far-fetched 
conceit,  and  unnatural  hyperbole.  Goldsmith  was  good 
enough  to  say  that  he  admired  the  beauties  of  the  great 

1  Adventurer,  No.  93,  Sept.  25,  1753.      2  Tbidi>  No.  m,  jan.  22, 1754 
8  Observer,  No.  75  (1785). 

346 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

father  of  the  English  stage  as  much  as  they  deserved ; 
but  he  could  wish  for  both  the  honor  of  the  country  and 
of  the  author  himself  that  many  of  his  scenes  should  be 
forgotten.1  This  reminds  one  of  Charles  James  Fox's 
remark  that  he  thought  Shakespeare's  credit  would 
have  stood  higher  if  he  had  never  written  '  Hamlet.'  2 
Goldsmith  further  brought  forward  the  observation, 
which  turns  up  with  unvarying  regularity  in  every  gen- 
eration, that  the  success  of  the  great  dramatist  was  not 
really  due  to  himself,  but  to  prescription.  "  Let  the 
spectator,"  said  he,  "  who  assists  at  any  of  these  newly 
revived  pieces  only  ask  himself  whether  he  would  ap- 
prove such  a  performance  if  written  by  a  modern  poet. 
I  fear  he  will'  find  that  much  of  his  applause  proceeds 
merely  from  the  sound  of  a  name  and  an  empty  venera- 
tion for  antiquity." 

Goldsmith's  knowledge  of  any  subject  he  treated 
was  always  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  the  charm  of  his  style ; 
and  this  is  not  the  only  place  where  he  made  it  manifest 
that  his  critical  judgment  was  on  a  par  with  his  knowl- 
edge. The  view  he  expressed  in  this  work  published  in 
1759  he  reiterated  in  '  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield '  which 
came  out  a  few  years  later.  In  it  Dr.  Primrose  is  rep- 
resented as  asking  the  strolling  player  whom  he  has 
met  who  are  the  present  theatrical  writers  in  vogue ; 
who  the  Drydens  and  Otways  of  the  day.  The  clergy- 
man is  astonished  and  disgusted  when  told  that  these 
writers  are  quite  out  of  fashion ;  that  the  taste  had  gone 

1  Chapter  xi. 

2  Northcote,  Life  of  Sir  Joshua  Keynolds,  vol.  ii.  p.  234  (ed.   of 

1818). 

347 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

back  a  whole  century ;  that  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  and 
all  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  are  the  only  things  that  go 
down.  Here  is  his  comment  upon  this  information. 
" '  How,'  cried  I,  '  is  it  possible  the  present  age  can  be 
pleased  with  that  antiquated  dialect,  that  obsolete 
humor,  those  overcharged  characters,  which  abound  in 
the  works  you  mention?'  "*  The  words  are  the  words 
of  the  vicar;  the  sentiments  are  the  sentiments  of 
Goldsmith. 

But  the  feeling  here  depicted  was  by  no  means  con- 
fined to  fiction  ;  it  is  exhibited  and  exemplified  in  works 
dealing  with  the  dullest  fact.  The  worthy  Blair,  who 
set  out  to  correct  the  bad  English  of  others  in  pretty  bad 
English  of  his  own,  had  a  good  deal  to  say  in  his  treatise 
on  rhetoric  about  the  failure  of  the  dramatist  to  come  up 
to  the  severe  standard  he  had  himself  in  mind.  On  the 
whole,  he  may  be  considered  as  not  having  been  actually 
unkind  to  Shakespeare.  He  doubtless  pitied  him  more 
than  he  admired ;  but  considering  who  he  was  himself, 
and  how  lofty  were  his  ideals,  it  was  a  good  deal  to  his 
credit  that  he  refrained  from  expressing  unbounded  con- 
tempt. Shakespeare  had  genius,  he  conceded ;  "  but  at 
the  same  time  it  is  genius  shooting  wild ;  deficient  in 
just  taste,  and  altogether  unassisted  by  knowledge  and 
art."  Accordingly  he  was  in  doubt  whether  the  beauties 
or  the  faults  of  the  dramatist  were  greater.  He  natu- 
rally expressed  himself  as  shocked  by  his  extreme  irregu- 
larities in  the  conduct  of  the  plot,  and  at  the  grotesque 
mixture  of  the  serious  and  the  comic  in  one  piece. 
"There  is  hardly  any  one  of  his  plays,"  he  concluded, 

1  Chapter  xviii. 
348 


CONFLICTING   EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

"  which  can  be  called  altogether  a  good  one,  and  which 
can  be  read  with  uninterrupted  pleasure  from  beginning 
to  end." 2  These  words,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  come 
from  the  lips  of  a  man  who  is  nominally  reckoned 
among  the  editors  of  Shakespeare. 

The  standard  of  taste  of  the  kind  here  indicated  was 
in  truth  so  high  in  Scotland  during-  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury  that  the  imperfections  of  Shakespeare  lay  heavy  on 
the  heart  of  several  of  its  men  of  letters.  It  was  felt 
that  something  should  be  done  to  redeem  the  English 
theatre  from  the  barbarism  with  which  that  dramatist 
had  infected  it.  Hopes  were  at  times  entertained  that 
North  Britain  might  come  to  the  relief  of  the  suffering 
stage.  In  a  tetter  written  in  1754  to  Spence,  Hume 
communicated  to  his  correspondent  something  which  he 
observed  was  an  agreeable  piece  of  news.  At  last  we 
might  expect  to  see  good  tragedies  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. A  namesake  of  his  own  had  discovered  a  very 
fine  genius  for  that  species  of  composition.  Years  before 
he  had  written  a  play  called  '  Agis ; '  but  this,  though 
approved  by  some  of  the  best  judges,  had  not  been  alto- 
gether satisfactory  to  Hume  himself.  The  author  had 
corrupted  his  taste  by  imitating  Shakespeare,  whom  he 
ought  to  have  contented  himself  with  simply  admiring. 
But  from  this  clearly  debasing  influence  his  namesake 
had  now  freed  himself.  He  had  composed  a  new  tragedy 
in  which  he  had  shown  himself  the  true  disciple  of 
Sophocles  and  Racine.  "I  hope  in  time,"  continued 
Hume,  "he  will  vindicate  the  English  stage  from  the 
reproach  of  barbarism."  2 

1  Lectures  on  Rhetoric,  Lecture  xlvi. 

2  Burton's  Hume,  vol.  i.  p.  392.    Letter  of  Oct.  15,  1754. 

349 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

This  tragedy  which  was  to  usher  in  the  English  dra- 
matic golden  age  was  the  '  Douglas  '  of  John  Home.  It  is 
a  very  good  specimen  of  a  very  poor  kind.  First  acted 
in  1756  at  Edinburgh,  it  was  brought  out  with  great 
success  in  1757  at  Co  vent  Garden,  and  during  the  rest 
of  the  century  kept  possession  of  the  stage.  The  feeling 
existed  among  many  Scotchmen  that  Shakespeare  had 
been  outdone.  Here  was  a  writer  who  had  rivalled,  if 
not  surpassed,  him  in  his  excellences,  while  he  was  free 
from  his  gross  faults.  He  had  fulfilled  all  the  condi- 
tions required  by  the  dramatic  art.  Time  and  place  had 
been  faithfully  observed.  Decorum  had  been  maintained 
throughout.  Acts  of  violence  occur;  but  they  are 
properly  kept  out  of  sight.  To  adopt  the  language  of 
Hume,  the  author  had  exhibited  "  the  true  theatric 
genius  of  Shakespeare  and  Otway,  refined  from  the  un- 
happy barbarism  of  the  one  and  the  licentiousness  of  the 
other."  Scotchmen  indeed  took  the  matter  very  seri- 
ously. Hannah  More  tells  us  of  the  quarrel  she  had  on 
this  subject  in  the  year  1786  with  Lord  Monboddo.  It 
amused  the  English  who  were  bystanders,  though  she 
complained  that  none  of  them  would  come  to  her  help. 
They  naturally  had  too  much  enjoyment  of  the  exhibi- 
tion to  desire  its  discontinuance.  Monboddo  asserted, 
in  all  the  sincerity  of  anger,  that  '  Douglas  '  was  a  better 
play  than  Shakespeare  could  have  written.1  Yet  what 
he  said  in  his  wrath  Hume  had  more  than  once  said 
before  in  all  coolness.  "  I  am  persuaded,"  he  wrote  of 
the  play  to  Adam  Smith,  "  it  will  be  esteemed  the  best, 
and  by  French  critics  the  only,  tragedy  of  our  lan- 
1  Hannah  More,  Life  and  Correspondence,  vol.  ii.  p.  22  (1834). 

350 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

guage."1  To  the  author  himself  he  said  that  it  was 
reserved  for  him,  and  for  him  alone,  "to  redeem  our 
stage  from  the  reproach  of  barbarism."  2 

Ridiculous  as  this  may  seem  now,  it  did  not  seem  to 
many  ridiculous  then.  It  only  reflected  the  extreme 
form  of  a  view  which,  as  we  have*  seen,  was  generally 
entertained  by  critics  of  this  first  class  of  which  we  have 
been  speaking.  Early  in  the  century  it  was  the  prevail- 
ing judgment;  towards  its  close  it  was  still  prevalent. 
In  fact,  for  a  time  the  influence  of  Voltaire  gave  it  re- 
newed vigor  and  vogue.  Furthermore,  it  must  be  ui> 
derstood  that  whatever  we  think  of  it,  the  eighteenth 
century  had  no  poor  opinion  of  itself.  In  its  own  eyes 
it  had  reached  a  height  of  literary  judgment  above  which 
it  was  impossible  for  the  human  mind  to  ascend.  At 
last  the  unadulterated  article  of  perfect  taste  had  been/ 
secured,  stripped  of  the  meretricious  attractions  which 
had  sullied  its  chastity  in  the  past,  and  like  refined  gold 
purified  in  the  fierce  fire  of  critical  assaying  from  incrus- 
tations which  had  deformed  it,  and  from  baser  matter 
which  had  been  mingled  with  it.  There  was  no  hesita- 
tion expressed  on  this  point,  for  there  was  none  enter- 
tained. Shakespeare  in  consequence  was  -exalted  or 
condemned  according  as  he  conformed  or  failed  to  con- 
form to  the  standard  the  individual  critic  set  up.  To 
ascertain  the  particular  rjjfclce  that'  was  to  be  assigned 
him  by  the  severer  judges  of  tJTis  class,  we  must  go  back 
to  Hume.  It  is  found  in  the  celebrated  passage  which 
he  inserted  in  the  appendix  to  his  account  of  the  reign 
of  James  I. 

1  Burton's  Hume,  vol.  ii.  p.  17.  2  Ibid.,  vol.  i.  p.  419. 

351 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

Hume's  theory  was  that  the  English  writers  were  pos- 
sessed of  great  genius  before  they  were  endowed  with 
any  degree  of  taste.  Hence  we  admire  their  imagina- 
tion while  blaming  their  judgment.  It  is  in  the  follow- 
ing words  that  he  made  a  particular  application  of  his 
general  view.  "If  Shakespeare,"  he  wrote,  "be  con- 
sidered as  a  man,  born  in  a  rude  age,  and  educated  iu 
the  lowest  manner,  without  any  instruction  either  from 
the  world  or  from  books,  he  may  be  regarded  as  a  prod- 
igy; if  represented  as  a  poet,  capable  of  furnishing  a 
proper  entertainment  to  a  refined  or  intelligent  audi- 
ence, we  must  abate  much  of  this  eulogy.  In  Ins  com- 
positions we  regret  that  many  irregularities,  and  even 
absurdities,  should  so  frequently  disfigure  the  animated 
and  passionate  scenes  intermixed  with  them ;  and  at  the 
same  time  we  perhaps  admire  the  more  those  beauties  on 
account  of  their  being  surrounded  with  such  deformi- 
ties. A  striking  peculiarity  of  sentiment,  adapted  to  a 
singular  character  he  frequently  hits,  as  it  were,  by 
inspiration ;  but  a  reasonable  propriety  of  thought  he  can- 
not for  any  time  uphold.  Nervous  and  picturesque  ex- 
pressions, as  well  as  descriptions,  abound  in  him ;  but  it 
is  in  vain  we  look  either  for  purity  or  simplicity  of  dic- 
tion. His  total  ignorance  of  all  theatrical  art  and  con- 
duct, however  material  a  defect,  yet  as  it  affects  the 
spectator  rather  than  the  reader,  we  can  more  easily  ex- 
cuse than  that  want  of  taste  which  often  prevails  in  his 
productions,  and  which  gives  way  only  by  intervals  to 
the  irradiations  of  genius.  A  great  and  fertile  genius  he 
certainly  possessed,  and  one  enriched  equally  with  a 
tragic  and  comic  vein ;  but  he  ought  to  be  cited  as  a 

352 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  VIEWS 

proof,  how  dangerous  it  is  to  rely  on  these  advantages 
alone  for  attaining  an  excellence  in  the  finer  arts.  And 
there  may  even  remain  a  suspicion  that  we  overrate,  if 
possible,  the  greatness  of  his  genius ;  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  bodies  often  appear  more  gigantic,  on  account  of 
their  being  disproportioned  and  misshapen/' 

The  passage  is  a  familiar  one;  but  no  frequency  of 
repetition  can  destroy  the  charm  of  its  delightfulness. 
To  have  the  greatest  dramatist  of  our  race,  if  not  of  all 
time,  spoken  of  in  a  matter-of-course  way  as  totally 
ignorant  of  all  theatrical  art  and  conduct  is  a  touch  to 
which  men  of  our  a^e  with  similar  beliefs  on  this  or 
other  subjects  would  never  dare  to  give  expression. 
Elsewhere  Hume  speaks  in  the  most  assured  manner  of 
both  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  as  being  equally 
deficient  in  taste  and  elegance,  in  harmony  and  correct- 
ness. The  rude  genius  of  the  former,  we  are  told,  had 
prevailed  over  the  rude  art  of  the  latter.  In  conse- 
quence the  English  theatre  has  ever  since  taken  a 
strong  tincture  of  Shakespeare's  spirit  and  character. 
The  results  had  been  in  one  way  deplorable.  Its  valu- 
able productions  in  other  parts  of  learning  had  not  been 
able  to  save  the  nation  from  incurring  from  all  its 
neighbors  the  reproach  of  barbarism. 

Speaking  merely  for  myself,  I  confess  I  like  this  criti- 
cal confidence  of  the  eighteenth  century,  little  as  I  be- 
lieve in  its  criticism.  There  was  an  open  magnificent 
sort  of  way  in  which  it  looked  upon  itself  as  omniscient, 
which  contrasts,  a  good  deal  to  its  credit,  with  the  hesi- 
tating, one  might  almost  say  sneaking,  manner  in  which 
we  occasionally  try  to  imply  the  same  thing,  not  daring 
23  353 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

boldly  to  avow  it,  while  at  heart  fully  thinking  it.  In 
that  clay  the  critics  of  this  class  talked  in  perfect  ac- 
cordance with  their  convictions.  They  consequently 
patronized  Shakespeare.  There  was  a  general  tone  of 
condescension  in  their  most  favorable  judgments.  He 
lived  in  a  barbarous  age.  The  language  had  not  then 
attained  that  refinement  which  it  had  since  been  made 
to  receive.  False  taste  prevailed,  and  from  the  influ- 
ence of  it  he  had  been  unable  to  free  himself.  In  fact, 
he  lacked  almost  entirely  the  favorable  conditions  with 
which  the  men  of  the  eighteenth  century  were  profusely 
blessed.  Yet  in  spite  of  these  disadvantages  his  mighty 
powers  had  enabled  him  to  accomplish  much  which 
they  honestly  felt  bound  to  speak  of  with  decided  ap- 
proval. "  If  Shakespeare's  genius,"  wrote  Lord  Ches- 
terfield, "  had  been  cultivated,  those  beauties  which  we 
so  justly  admire  in  him,  would  have  been  undisguised 
by  those  extravagances  and  that  nonsense  with  which 
they  are  frequently  accompanied."  This  mingled  tone 
of  regard  and  regret  pervades  no  small  share  of  the 
critical  utterance  of  this  period.  It  is  hard  indeed  to 
tell  which  is  the  more  predominant  feeling  in  the  eight- 
eenth century,  its  admiration  of  Shakespeare  or  its 
admiration  of  itself  for  admiring  Shakespeare ;  for  its 
broad-minded  catholicity  in  not  being  so  offended  by  his 
faults  as  to  become  blind  to  his  merits. 

Such  was  the  prevalent  belief  about  Shakespeare  with 
the  critics  of  the  first  class.  But  even  at  the  era  of  the 
Restoration  it  came  into  conflict  with  another  belief, 
which  was  from  the  beginning  outspoken,  though  it  did 
not  at  first  speak   in   print.     But  from  the   time  the 

354 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  VIEWS 

eighteenth  century  opened,  it  gathered  constantly  vol- 
ume and  energy,  and  at  last  triumphed  over  the  pre- 
viously predominant  belief,  with  which  it  had,  however, 
much  in  common.  Those  holding  it  admitted  the  cor- 
rectness of  the  premises  laid  down  by  the  critics  of  the 
first  class.  What  they  dissented  from  was  the  conclu- 
sion. As  a  consequence  they  admired  in  fact  what  in 
theory  they  were  bound  to  condemn.  Shakespeare  might 
be  deficient  in  art;  he  undoubtedly  was  deficient  in  art. 
He  might  venture  upon  practices  which  the  trained 
judgment  of  the  cultivated  would  disapprove  ;  but  he 
took  possession  of  the  heart,  and  the  heart  never  refused 
its  allegiance  to  the  great  master,  whatever  protest  the 
mere  understanding  might  put  forth.  Others  might 
preach  the  superiority  of  the  creed  of  the  regular  school 
of  dramatists.  They  might  point  out  how  free  it  was 
from  the  faults  which  deformed  the  writings  of  the  great 
Elizabethan,  and  proclaim  that  the  doctrine  it  taught 
was  the  only  orthodox  one,  and  could  not  be  violated 
with  impunity.  But  there  remained  the  disagreeable 
fact  that  the  writers  of  this  school,  while  observing  all 
the  laws,  committed  the  one  unpardonable  sin  of  being 
uninteresting.  Those  who  censured  the  dramatist  for  his 
irregularities,  and  then  subjected  themselves  to  compari- 
son with  him  by  producing  regular  plays  of  their  own,  had 
without  exception  exposed  themselves  to  the  malediction 
pronounced  by  Dryden  in  the  prologue  to  his  last  play,  — 

"To  Shakespeare's  critic  he  bequeaths  the  curse, 
To  find  his  faults,  and  yet  himself  make  worse; 
A  precious  reader  in  poetic  schools,  / 

Who  by  his  own  examples  damns  his  rules."! 

1  Prologue  to  '  Love  Triumphant,'  1G94. 
355 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

Here  in  truth  thrusts  in  its  ugly  face  the  ever-recurring 
difficulty  which  besets  literary  as  well  as  religious 
movements.  The  creed  of  the  gospel  which  is  preached 
is  brought  into  disrepute  by  the  acts  of  its  apostles. 

As  a  result,  the  men  who  could  not  tolerate  the  plays 
of  the  orthodox  pattern  were  glad  to  shelter  them- 
selves under  the  broad  and  unimpeachable  heterodoxy 
of  Shakespeare.  Still  they  had  been  brought  up  to  be- 
lieve in  the  rules  they  disliked.  In  theory  they  recog- 
nized their  binding  force,  though  there  was  always 
likelihood  that  in  the  heat  of  controversy  they  might 
speak  of  them  disparagingly  and  question  their  value. 
As  therefore  they  had  a  sort  of  faith  in  these  rules,  and 
full  faith  in  the  man  who  disregarded  them,  they  were 
obliged  to  resort  to  the  further  theory  that  Shakespeare 
was  somehow  above  art ;  that  he  had  received  a  special 
commission  from  Nature  to  do  as  he  pleased,  and  that 
the  mighty  mother,  in  allowing  him  to  penetrate  into 
her  profoundest  mysteries,  had  absolved  him  from  the 
necessity  of  paying  heed  to  the  restraints  which  held 
inferior  men  in  check,  —  had  permitted  him  to  pass 
unharmed  the  bounds  of  space  and  time,  beyond  whose 
confines  others  could  not  venture  with  safety.  The 
special  exemption  of  the  great  dramatist  from  the  oper- 
ation of  general  law  is  a  distinctive  feature  of  the  dra- 
matic criticism  of  the  eighteenth  century.  It  has  been 
more  than  once  conveyed  in  passages  which  have  been 
cited  in  preceding  pages  for  a  totally  distinct  purpose. 
It  rarely  if  ever  occurred  to  the  men  who  held  this  view 
that  the  law  itself  might  not  really  be  binding.  They 
rarely  drew  the  inference  that  the  art  which  Shakespeare 

356 


CONFLICTING   EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

had  neglected  to  observe  might  not  be  art  at  all,  but 
merely  a  parcel  of  conventions  which  had  been  dubbed 
with  that  title.  They  accepted,  with  grumbling  perhaps, 
but  still  without  dissent,  the  rules  which  were  to  regu- 
late the  practice  of  dramatists ;  but  they  accepted  just 
as  unflinchingly  and  much  more  ardently  the  writer  who 
had  persistently  violated  them. 

It  is  clear  that  men  of  this  stamp  existed  from  the 
very  beginning  of  the  Restoration  period.  During  the 
half-century  that  followed  they  may  have  been  awed 
into  silence  by  the  predominance  of  the  opposing  view. 
It  is  not  at  least  from  anything  they  said  themselves 
that  we  learn  of  the  opinions  they  held ;  it  is  from  what 
is  said  about  them  by  others.  Their  existence  can- 
not be  questioned.  Dryden  tells  us,  in  the  defence  of 
his  epilogue  to  the  second  part  of  'The  Conquest  of 
Granada,'  that  there  were  those  then  who  called  the 
Elizabethan  age  the  golden  age  of  English  poetry.  The 
general  belief  in  the  superiority  of  Shakespeare  in  par- 
ticular, coupled  with  much  ignorance  on  the  part  of 
many  of  what  he  had  written,  and  with  distinct  dispar- 
agement of  it  on  the  part  of  a  few,  is  conveyed  unmis- 
takably in  the  minor  literature  of  the  latter  half  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  His  works  were  sometimes 
plundered  without  acknowledgment ;  as  frequently,  how- 
ever, the  pillager  was  anxious  to  secure  the  advan- 
tage of  his  name.  Crowne  in  the  prologue  to  the 
first  part  of  his  '  Henry  VI.'  bore  witness  in  the  fol- 
lowing words  to  the  prejudice  existing  in  favor  of  the 
elder  dramatist :  — 


357 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

"  To-day  we  bring  old  gathered  herbs,  't  is  true, 
But  such  as  in  sweet  Shakespeare's  garden  grew.     . 
And  all  his  plants  immortal  you  esteem, 
Your  mouths  are  never  out  of  taste  with  him." 

'   0 

This  was  said  in  1G80.  As  time  went  on,  as  the  eight- 
eenth century  opened,  reference  to  these  varying  views 
become  increasingly  frequent.  Dennis,  in  the  preface 
to  his  alteration  of  'The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,' 
tells  us  that  in  setting  out  to  remodel  this  play,  he 
found  that  he  should  have  two  sorts  of  people  to  deal 
with,  who  would  equally  endeavor  to  obstruct  his  suc- 
cess. The  one  believed  it  so  admirable  that  nothing 
ought  to  be  added  to  it ;  the  other  fancied  it  to  be  so 
despicable  that  the  time  of  any  one  would  be  lost  in 
improving  it. 

That  the  former  class  was  steadily  growing  in  num- 
bers, is  made  evident  from  the  increasing  violence  with 
which  its  opinions  were  attacked.  Rowe,  in  his  life 
of  Shakespeare  prefixed  to  the  first  critical  edition  of 
the  plays,  had  intimated  his  belief  that  additional  learn- 
ing might  have  been  an  injury  instead  of  a  benefit  to 
the  dramatist.  He  might  in  consequence  have  become 
a  more  correct  writer,  but  it  was  not  improbable  that 
the  regularity  and  deference  for  rule  which  would  have 
attended  his  correctness,  might  have  restrained  some  of 
that  fire  and  impetuosity  and  even  beautiful  extrava- 
gance which  we  admire.  This  is  clearly  an  opinion 
then  widely  entertained.  The  declaration  of  it  by 
Rowe  called  forth  an  earnest  protest  from  Gildon.  All 
through  the  essay  which  he  prefixed  to  the  supple- 
mentary volume  of   the  minor  poems  runs  a  constant 

358 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

series  of  attacks  upon  the  ignorant  and  thoughtless  men 
of  the  age  who  were  constantly  engaged  in  denouncing 
the  rules,  and  as  proof  of  their  worthlessness  pointing 
to  the  success  of  Shakespeare,  who  had  either  been 
ignorant  of  them,  or  knowing  them  had  treated  them 
with  contempt. 

Views  of  this  sort  were  undoubtedly  irritating  to  the 
critics  of  the  other  and  then  established  school.  In 
their  eyes  its  unreasonableness  was  evident  on  its  face. 
Of  course  conformity  to  law  could  not  supply  the  place 
of  genius.  They  quoted  the  concession  of  the  French 
Academy  in  its  controversy  with  Corneille  that  some 
regular  pieces  were  very  unsatisfactory.  But  had  not 
this  same  body  also  pointed  out  so  plainly  that  even 
the  wayfaring  man,  though  a  fool,  could  not  err,  that 
in  such  cases  it  was  the  writers  that  were  at  fault  and 
not  the  rules?  In  so  far  as  he  had  observed  these,  and 
so  far  only,  was  Shakespeare  great.  It  was  not  his  dis- 
regard of  the*rules  which  had  brought  him  success,  but 
his  excellence  in  the  expression  of  manners,  in  the  dis- 
tinction of  characters,  in  the  representation  of  passion. 
If  in  addition  to  these  he  had  only  known  the  dramatic 
art,  he  would  have  occupied  an  altogether  higher  place 
than  the  one  which  he  had  actually  attained.  So  argued, 
from  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  ad- 
herents of  the  classical  school.  At  its  end  we  find  it 
all  repeated  by  Blair.  But  their  most  strenuous  efforts 
could  not  uproot  the  lurking  heresy  to  which  some  of 
their  own  side  occasionally  exhibited  partiality.  It  is 
further  manifest  that  there  were  those  at  that  time  who 
were  disposed  to  push  to  an  extreme  their  hostility  to 

359 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

the  so-called  rules  of  art.  They  insisted  that  no  play 
would  please  in  which  they  were  observed.  They  spoke 
of  them  as  curbs  to  wit  and  poetry.  This  baleful  error, 
as  Gildon  termed  it,  was  based,  in  his  opinion,  upon  the 
admiration  which  the  works  of  Shakespeare  received. 
This  admiration,  it  was  further  asserted,  was  not  due 

-altogether  to  his  excellence,  but  to  custom.  Even  early 
in  the  eighteenth  century  we  find  the  same  reason  given 
for  his  popularity  which  we  have  found  expressed  in  the 
middle  of  it  by  Goldsmith.  It  was  definitely  stated  as 
prescription.  His  claim  rested  upon  the  uninterrupted 
enjoyment  of  a  long  reputation  of  conceded  superiority. 
Even  then  it  was  the  correct  thing  to  admire  Shake- 
speare. He  who  failed  to  do  it  incurred  from  large  and 
steadily  increasing  numbers  the  suspicion  of  suffering 

■from  arrested  mental  development.  Of  this  Gildon  com- 
plained again  and  again.  Rymer's  charge  of  the  gross 
impropriety  of  making  the  chief  character  in  a  drama 
a  negro,  as  in  '  Othello,'  he  tells  us,  was  unquestionably 
just ;  but  still,  he  adds,  the  play  pleases  by  prescription.1 
He  furthermore  confessed  that  he  did  not  dare  to  find 
fault  with  many  of  the  speeches  in  '  Romeo  and  Juliet ' 
as  being  not  natural ;  since  to  do  so  would  provoke  too 
many  who  admire  it  as  the  soul  of  love.2  Later  in  the 
century  George  III.  bore  unwilling  witness  to  the  ex- 
istence of  a  sovereign  whose  greatness  he  had  neither 
the  taste  to  appreciate  nor  the  ability  to  comprehend, 
but  whose  supremacy  he  was  forced  to  recognize  as  being 
beyond  the  reach  of  criticism.     Madame  D'Arblay  has 

1  Remarks  on   the  Plays  of  Shakespeare  (1710),  in  Shakespeare's 
Works,  vol.  x.  (1728)  p.  410. 

2  Ibid.,  p.  378. 

360 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

preserved  for  us  a  few  of  the  choice  bits  of  wisdom 
which  were  flung  forth  carelessly  by  the  royal  mind. 
"  Was  there  ever,"  he  said  to  her,  "  such  stuff  as  great 
part  of  Shakespeare  ?  Only  one  must  not  say  so  !  But 
what  think  you  ?  —  What  ?  —  Is  there  not  sad  stuff  ?  — 
What?  —  What?"  Miss  Burney  made  in  reply  the 
usual  admission  of  the  imperfections  of  the  dramatist, 
but  attempted  to  put  in  also  the  usual  feeble  defence  of 
his  possession  of  great  counterbalancing  excellences. 
"  O!  "  broke  in  the  monarch,  good-humoredly.  "  O,  I 
know  it  is  not  to  be  said  !  but  it  is  true !  Only  it  is 
Shakespeare,  and  nobody  dare  abuse  him."  Then  he 
proceeded  to  enumerate  many  of  the  characters  and 
parts  of  plays  to  which  he  objected.  These  remarks  the 
diarist  unfortunately  did  not  put  down  ;  but  the  words 
with  which  the  King  concluded  reveal  that  he  felt  that 
no  one,  even  though  holding  his  own  exalted  position, 
could  safely  venture  to  attack  the  dramatist.  His  crit- 
icisms were  just,  "but,"  he  added,  "one  should  be 
stoned  for  saying  so."  l  In  this  matter  the  King  agreed 
with  One  of  his  most  unruly  subjects.  Cobbett  never 
read  a  line  of  the  poet  until  1797,  when  he  was  thirty- 
five  years  old;  and  he  formed  then  a  low  opinion  of 
him.  The  admiration  expressed  for  him  he  attributed 
to  mere  caprice  of  fashion. 

It  is  Dennis  and  Gildon  who  naturally  furnish  us 
with  the  fullest  information  as  to  the  opinions  of  this 
earlier  period  ;  for  they  were  the  two  who  then  con- 
cerned themselves  directly  in  Shakespearean  criticism. 
We    find    them  —  especially    the    latter  —  perpetually 

1  Diary  of  Madam  D'Arblay,  vol.  ii.  p.  398. 
361 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

clamoring  against  a  certain  body  of  men  who  main- 
tained that  if  Shakespeare  had  been  more  of  a  critic, 
he  would  have  been  less  of  a  poet.  These  persons 
could  not  be  persuaded  out  of  the  belief  that  his  mon- 
strous irregularities  were  really  conducive  to  the  shin- 
ing beauties  that  abounded  in  his  plays.  This  was  a 
state  of  mind  which  naturally  strengthened  as  the  rules 
were  enforced  upon  the  writer  with  increasing  rigidity, 
but  with  results  correspondingly  depressing  to  both 
spectator  and  reader.  It  was  to  some  extent  shared  in 
by  those  whose  practice  would  rank  them  as  belonging 
to  the  classical  school.  Rowe  was  certainly  not  deterred 
by  the  criticism  his  remarks  in  his  life  of  Shakespeare 
had  received,  from  continuing  to  express  the  same  views. 
In  the  prologue  to  his  tragedy  of  '  Jane  Shore,'  brought 
out  in  1714,  he  spoke  of  the  superiority  in  certain  par- 
ticulars of  the  past  to  the  present.  Then  he  added  the 
following  comment :  — 

"  In  such  an  age  immortal  Shakespeare  wrote, 
By  no  quaint  rules  or  hampering  critics  taught ; 
With  rough  majestic  force  he  moved  the  heart ; 
And  strength  and  nature  made  amends  for  art." 

It  would,  perhaps,  not  have  done  just  then  to  maintain 
extravagant  heretical  opinions  like  these  in  sober  prose. 
Men  could  venture  upon  them  in  the  freedom  of  conver- 
sation ;  in  poetry,  furthermore,  they  felt  themselves  at 
liberty  to  avow  them  audaciously.  The  sentiment  al- 
ready indicated,  which  soon  came  to  be  widely  preva- 
lent, is  represented  very  satisfactorily  in  a  few  lines  from 
a  then  somewhat  popular   though  now   long-forgotten 

362 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

piece,  entitled  '  The  Progress  of  Poesy.' *  It  was  pub- 
lished at  least  as  early  as  1731,  and  was  the  production 
of  Mrs.  Madan,  a  daughter  of  Spencer  Cowper,  and  aunt 
of  the  poet  of  that  name.  In  giving  a  running  charac- 
terization of  the  great  writers  of  the  past  and  the 
present,  she  called  special  attention,  in  the  case  of 
Shakespeare,  to  the  success  he  had  met  with  in  spite  of 
having  violated  the  laws  of  the  drama.  It  was  in  these 
lines  that  she  began  her  description :  — 

"  Exalted  Shakespeare,  with  a  boundless  mind, 
Ranged  far  and  wide,  a  genius  unconfined  ; 
The  passions  swayed,  and  captive  led  the  heart, 
Without  the  critic's  rules  or  aid  of  art.;' 

Many  years  later  the  portion  of  the  poem  which  dealt 
with  the  dramatist  was  taken  apart  from  the  rest  —  pos- 
sibly by  the  authoress  herself  —  and  with  great  additions 
was  published  in  a  periodical  under  the  title  of  '  Verses 
on  Reading  Shakespeare.'  The  same  sentiment  was  ex- 
pressed even  more  strongly  in  the  following  words :  — 

"  What  though  by  judgment's  frigid  rules  he  fails, 
Resistless  still  o'er  passion  he  prevails, 
And  spite  of  all  his  faults,  the  wise  admire 
The  daring  bard  and  kindle  at  his  fire."  - 

Then  followed  without  acknowledgment  some  lines 
taken  from  Dryden ;  and  the  writer  went  on  to  pay  the 
highest  of  tributes  to  Shakespeare,  and  to  Garrick  as  his 
interpreter.     Later  in  the  century  the  feeling  was  ex- 

1  This  poem  was  printed  in  'The  Flower-piece,'  1731 ;  in  the  '  London 
Magazine'  for  February  and  March,  175!>;  in  'Fawkea  and  Woty's 
Poetical  Calendar,'  March,  170:5;  and  it  was  reprinted  in  1783  in  a  sepa- 
rate volume.  The  part  on  Shakespeare,  much  enlarged,  can  he  found 
in  the  'Gentleman's  Magazine'  for  June,  1753. 

2  Gentleman's  Magazine,  1753,  vol.  xiii.  p.  287. 

363 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

pressed  still  more  strongly  by  Colman  in  his  prologue  to 
the  revived  'Philaster,'  in  which  he  spoke  with  a  good 
deal  of  contempt  of  the  regular  tragedies  then  produced 
on  the  English  stage,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  Say,  where  's  the  poet,  trained  in  pedant  schools, 
Equal  to  Shakespeare,  who  o'erleaped  all  rules." 

Several  of  the  citations  given  in  preceding  chapters 
to  illustrate  other  points  express  an  opinion  not  dissimi- 
lar to  the  foregoing.  It  crops  out  so  constantly  in  the 
literature  of  the  eighteenth  century  that  it  would  swell 
this  work  to  disproportionate  limits  to  attempt  to  give 
even  a  partial  representation  of  the  wealth  of  material 
illustrating  it  which  exists.  Two  further  passages  are 
all  that  need  be  cited  here,  and  they  are  cited  not  for 
their  merit,  but  on  account  of  the  frequency  with  which 
they  were  reproduced  in  the  periodical  literature  of  the 
time.  The  first  is  a  passage  from  a  poem  comparing 
Shakespeare  and  Jonson,  written  by  Samuel  Rogers, 
rector  of  Chellington  in  Bedfordshire.  The  lines  are 
dreadful  as  literature,  but  they  do  more  than  convey 
the  estimate  of  the  superiority  of  the  former  author  to 
the  latter,  which  had  long  been  universally  accepted. 
They  express  the  then  widely  prevalent  sentiment,  that 
Shakespeare  owed  nothing  whatever  to  art.  In  these 
lines  we  find  the  view  which  had  come  to  displace  the 
one  that  had  at  first  held  supremacy :  — 

"  Great  Shakespeare  with  genius  disdaining  all  rules, 
Above  the  cold  phlegm  or  the  f  ripp'ry  of  schools, 
Appeal'd  to  the  heart  for  success  of  his  plays, 
And  trusted  to  nature  alone  for  the  bays." 1 

1  This  poem  first  appeared  in  the  '  St.  James's  Magazine,' vol.  ii.  p.  63 
(1763),  and  afterward  in  a  volume  of  collected  poems  by  the  author. 

364 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

A  few  years  later  George  Keate,  the  friend  of  Voltaire, 
addressed  a  poetical  epistle  to  that  author  entitled  '  Fer- 
ney.'  In  this  he  warmly  defended  Shakespeare  from  the 
strictures  of  the  French  writer,  and  spoke  of  him  as 

"  Above  control,  above  each  classic  rule, 
His  witness  nature,  and  the  world  his  school." 

Here  then  have  been  given  the  views  of  these  two 
classes  of  critics.  According  to  the  one  Shakespeare\ 
was  irregularly  great,  but  he  would  have  been  far 
greater,  had  he  only  known  and  practised  the  poetic  art. 
According  to  the  other,  he  was  great  because  he  did  not 
know  and  practise  it,  because  he  was  above  it.  In  eac^K 
case  his  incorrectness  was  assumed.  It  was  conceded 
by  his  admirers  as  freely  as  it  was  strongly  insisted 
upon  by  his  severest  judges.  He  was  unquestionably 
guilty  of  absurdities,  only  they  were  glorious  absurdities. 
Colman,  for  instance,  wrote  an  essay  containing  an 
account  of  various  geniuses  who  are  represented  as  sac- 
rificing in  the  temple  of  Fame  those  portions  of  their 
works  which  have  been  preserved  to  their  discredit. 
Among  these  Shakespeare  appears,  carrying  to  the  altar 
a  long  string  of  puns,  marked  'The  Taste  of  the  Age,' 
a  small  parcel  of  bombast,  and  a  pretty  large  bundle  of 
incorrectness.  Yet  a  further  remark  in  this  same  essay 
is  noticeable,  not  only  as  indicating  a  view  of  the  great- 
ness of  the  dramatist  now  becoming;  universal,  but  some 
faint  conception  of  the  fact  that  the  criticism  to  which 
he  had  been  constantly  subjected  was  based  upon  a  false 
theory.  Aristotle  is  represented  as  saying  that  "  although 
Shakespeare  was  quite  ignorant  of  that  exact  economy  of 
the  stage  which  is  so  remarkable  in  the  Greek  writers,  yet 

365 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

the  mere  strength  of  his  genius  had  in  many  points  car- 
ried him  infinitely  beyond  them." 1  It  was  a  conviction 
of  the  same  sort  that  led  some  at  about  the  same  time 
to  avow  openly  an  opinion  which  had  long  been  held  by 
many  in  secret.  This  was  that  Shakespeare  was  a  far 
greater  dramatist  than  Sophocles  or  Euripides.  His 
superiority  to  Corneille  and  Racine  was  assumed  by 
most  Englishmen  as  not  worth  discussing.  But  the 
remark  of  Colman  shows  that,  without  being  aware  of 
it,  men  were  blindly  feeling  their  way  to  that  position, 
which  Lessing  was  soon  to  state  definitely,  that  genius 
laughs  away  all  the  boundary  lines  of  criticism,  and  that 
there  is  much  which  it  has  first  to  create  before  we  can 
recognize  it  as  possible.  The  modern  view  was  slowly 
taking  outline  and  form. 

It  was  the  growth  of  this  feeling  which  was  under- 
mining the  whole  foundation  upon  which  the  censure  of 
Shakespeare's  methods  had  been  based.-  This  was  not 
uprooted  until  the  following  centur}^ ;  but  it  was  perma- 
nently impaired.  Boswell  tells  us  in  his  life  of  Johnson 
that  a  blind,  indiscriminate  admiration  of  Shakespeare 
had  exposed  the  British  nation  to  the  ridicule  of  foreign- 
ers. That  commentator  had  rescued  him  from  the  in- 
jury wrought  by  his  panegyrists  in  consequence  of  the 
masterly  display  he  had  furnished  of  his  excellences  and 
defects.  Boswell's  testimony  is  of  value  as  to  the  exist- 
ence of  the  admiration ;  but  he  forgot  to  mention  that 
the  defects  which  Johnson  pointed  out  had  come  to  be 
recognized,  even  in  the  time  of  his  biographer,  not  as 
defects  in  the  poet,  but  defects  in  the  vision  of  his  edi- 

1  The  Adventurer,  No.  90,  September  15,  1753. 

366 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   vfSWS 

tor.  In  the  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century  there 
was,  furthermore,  less  and  less  disposition  to  heed  foreign 
opinion,  which  itself  was  now  beginning  in  turn  to  feel 
the  weight  of  Shakespeare's  influence.  The  disposition 
further  manifested  itself  not  to  stand  on  the  defensive, 
but  to  attack  the  holders  of  the  opposite  view.  In  truth, 
the  advocates  of  the  doctrines  of  the  French  school  came 
to  have  a  hard  time  of  it  in  England  as  the  eighteenth 
century  drew  towards  its  close.  Even  as  early  as  1784 
there  is  a  scornful  reference  in  a  poem  on  Shakespeare 

to 

"  The  self-plumed  tribe  of  modern  Gaul, 

"Whose  powdered  critics  join  at  fashion's  call 
To  mock  with  feeble  light  thy  noon-tide  rays."  1 

The  one  conclusion  which  the  survey  of  eighteenth- 
century  criticism  brings  out,  above  all,  is  that  the 
appreciation  of  Shakespeare's  art  was  a  growth  which 
steadily  increased  as  a  consequence  of  the  increase  of 
familiarity  with  his  plays.  In  the  latter  half  of  the  pre- 
ceding century  any  real  knowledge  of  his  writings  was 
limited  to  but  few.  His  works  were  not  accessible  to 
the  generality  of  men.  They  were  contained  as  a  whole 
in  large  and  necessarily  expensive  folios,  incorrectly 
printed,  and,  strictly  speaking,  not  edited  at  all.  These 
volumes  not  many  had  the  means  to  buy,  and  none  had 
the  now  existing  aids  to  understand.  Furthermore  the 
editions  were  too  limited  in  the  number  of  their  copies 
to   give   a    large    circulation   to  his  works.     For  most 

1  From  a  'Rhapsody'  on  Shakespeare,  written  at  Stratford-on-Avon, 
and  published  in  a  volume  (1784)  containing  as  the  principal  poem 
1  Abelard  to  Eloisa,'  by  T.  Warwick.  It  is  printed  in  full  in  the  '  Euro- 
pean Magazine'  for  July,  1784,  vol.  vi.  p.  55. 

367 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

men  acquaintance  with  his  plays  was  made  through  the 
medium  of  stage  representation,  and  was  restricted  to 
the  comparatively  few  which  were  then  acted.  This 
state  of  things  made  it  possible  for  writers  to  steal  much 
from  his  less-known  pieces  with  little  fear  of  detection, 
and  then  imply  or  openly  assert  that  they  had  stolen 
nothing.  The  impudence  and  audacity  with  which  this 
was  occasionally  done  is  so  great  as  to  awaken  a  certain 
feeling  of  respect.  In  1682  Durfey  converted  'Cym- 
beline '  into  a  play  entitled  '  The  Fatal  Wager.'  Not 
the  slightest  indication  was  given  of  its  origin.  The 
name  of  Shakespeare  appears  neither  on  the  title-page 
nor  anywhere  else.  Even  the  effect  of  the  intimation 
in  the  prologue  that  the  play  was  a  revived  one  was 
destroyed  by  the  statement  in  the  epilogue  that  the 
piece  had  been  written  nine  years  before.  Similarly  the 
version  of  '  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,'  attributed  to 
the  actor,  Lacy,  which  was  entitled  '  Sawney  the  Scot,' 
contains  no  reference  whatever  to  the  original  author. 
This  may  have  been  accident ;  for  the  reputed  adapter 
had  been  long  dead  when  the  comedy  was  printed.  But 
in  this  matter  the  palm  for  bold  impudent  lying  must  be 
awarded  to  Crowne.  In  the  dedication  of  the  first  part 
of  his  '  Henry  VI.'  to  Sedley,  he  declared  that  he  used 
his  patron's  name  to  support  his  venture  through  the 
press,  as  he  had  previously  used  Shakespeare's  to  sup- 
port it  on  the  stage.  Yet  Shakespeare,  he  added,  had 
no  title  to  the  fortieth  part  of  the  play.  As  even  the 
slightest  comparison  would  have  disclosed  the  falsity  of 
the  statement,  its  utterance  must  be  regarded  both  as  a 
tribute  to  the  influence  of  Shakespeare's  name  with  the 

368 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

public,  and  as  a  testimony  to  their  ignorance  of  his  less* 
known  writings. 

All  this  condition  of  things  underwent  change,  as 
soon  as  critical  editions  of  Shakespeare  plays  began  to 
follow  one  another,  beginning  with  Howe's  of  1709.  As 
these  became  more  numerous,  the  ability  to  have  his 
works  in  one's  own  possession  came  within  the  reach  of 
all.  Hence  the  critical  cant  which  had  once  run  almost 
unchallenged  began  to  come  in  contact  with  the  indepen- 
dent judgment  of  a  cultivated  class  who  formed  their 
opinions  by  a  direct  study  of  the  writings  of  the  drama- 
tist. To  this  was  due  the  growing  dislike  of  the  altera- 
tions which  has  been  already  mentioned.  To  it  was  due 
the  growing  recognition  of  his  greatness  as  a  writer  of 
comedy  as  well  as  of  tragedy.  For  a  long  period  '  The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor'  was  frequently,  perhaps 
usually,  spoken  of  as  his  best  work  in  the  former  kind  of 
composition.  This  was  partly  because  in  character  and 
treatment  it  approaches  nearer  to  that  Plautian  and  Te- 
rentian  model  which  the  classicists  held  sacred  than 
plays  like  '  The  Tempest,'  '  Twelfth  Night,'  and  '  As 
You  Like  It,'  which  ascend  wholly  or  at  intervals  into 
a  higher  spiritual  atmosphere. 

Still  how  late  was  the  development  of  the  critical 
appreciation  of  Shakespeare  can  be  seen  in  the  view 
taken  at  different  periods  of  his  female  characters. 
One  can  hardly  enlarge  upon  the  beauty  of  these  now 
without  subjecting  himself  to  the  reproach  of  uttering 
commonplace.  In  foreign  as  well  as  English-speaking 
lands  men  of  the  highest  order  of  mind  have  paid  them 
the  tribute  of  unquestioning  homage.  No  literature  of 
24  369 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

the  imagination  presents  a  gallery  of  portraits  like  those 
of  Miranda,  Juliet,  Portia,  Imogen,  Isabella,  and  a  score 
besides,  each  one  distinctly  different  from  the  rest,  but  in 
their  different  ways  all  alike  beautiful.  We  recognize 
their  charm  so  plainly  that  it  would  seem  a  matter  of 
wonder  that  it  could  escape  the  notice  of  the  blindest 
observer.  Yet  a  view  which  appears  to  us  a  mere 
matter  of  course  did  not  so  strike  our  ancestors.  The 
admiration  now  so  universally  felt  is  but  a  little  more 
than  a  century  old,  at  least  as  regards  its  expression. 
Venturesome  as  it  is  to  affirm  a  negative  —  I  therefore 
speak  it  under  correction  —  I  am  fairly  confident  that 
critical  literature  for  the  more  than  hundred  years  which 
followed  the  Restoration  will  be  searched  in  vain  for  a 
passage  implying  the  slightest  recognition  of  the  purity, 
the  delicacy,  and  the  loftiness  of  the  female  characters 
of  Shakespeare.  He  received  unbounded  credit  for  his 
skill  in  characterization,  but  it  was  always  the  charac- 
terization of  his  masculine  heroes. 

In  truth,  for  a  long  period  either  nothing  whatever  is 
said  about  the  heroines,  or  what  is  said  is  distinctly 
derogatory.  Rymer's  contemptuous  mention  of  Desde- 
mona  has  already  been  given.1  She  fared  no  better  at 
the  hands  of  Gildon.  He  looked  upon  Otway,  whom 
he  called  his  master,  as  unquestionably  superior  in  the 
portrayal  of  female  character.  "  'T  is  true,"  he  wrote, 
"  every  man  can  not  succeed  in  every  passion ;  some 
that  touch  those  that  are  the  more  manly  with  energy 
and  force  enough,  are  awkward  and  calm  in  the  more 
tender.     Shakespeare  that  drew  Othello   so  finely  has 

i  See  p.  278. 
370 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

made  but  a  scurvy  piece  of  Desdemona ;  and  Otway 
alone  seemed  to  promise  a  master  in  every  kind."  1  He 
reiterated  this  view  a  few  years  later  in  his  remarks  on 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare.  "  It  must  be  owned,"  he 
wrote,  "that  Shakespeare  drew  men  better  than  women, 
to  whom  indeed  he  has  seldom  given  any  considerable 
place  in  his  plays."  No  one  needs  to  be  told  that  the 
criticism  in  the  first  clause  is  as  well  founded  as  the  fact 
asserted  in  the  last.  Yet  neither  is  by  any  means  un- 
exampled. Years  before  Rowe  had  implied  a  not  dis- 
similar view  of  the  dramatist's  powers  in  the  prologue 
to  his  tragedy  of  '  The  Ambitious  Stepmother.'  In 
that  occur  the  following  lines :  — 

"  Shakespeare,  whose  genius  to  itself  a  law, 
Could  men  in  every  height  of  nature  draw 
And  copied  all  but  women  that  he  saw." 

Ridiculous  as  this  opinion  may  seem  to  us,  it  was 
long  the  belief  of  many  and  possibly  of  most.  Montes- 
quieu, who  was  in  England  in  1730,  records  a  conversa- 
tion in  which  Queen  Caroline  took  part  on  occasion  of 
his  presentation  at  the  court.  It  turned  on  the  dramas 
of  Shakespeare.  The  queen  asked  Lord  Chesterfield, 
who  was  present,  why  it  was  that  Shakespeare  had  made 
his  women  talk  so  wretchedly  and  act  so  like  fools. 
Chesterfield  had  his  answer  ready,  and  Montesquieu 
regarded  it  as  satisfactory  as  far  as  it  went.  Women, 
he  said,  did  not  appear  on  the  stage  in  the  time  of 
Elizabeth.  Their  parts  were  taken  by  bad  actors,  and 
therefore  the  writers  did  not  put  forth  any  pains  to 
make  them  speak  well.     For  good  all-round  ignorance 

1  Preface  to  'Love's  Victim'  (1701). 
371 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

this  explanation  is  hard  to  equal.  Montesquieu  thought 
he  could  better  it  by  contributing  still  another  reason. 
In  order  to  make  women  talk  well,  he  observed,  it  is 
necessary  to  know  the  usages  of  the  world  and  the  man- 
ners of  good  society.  To  have  men  talk  like  heroes, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  study  books.1  This  conclusion 
left  Shakespeare  in  what  he  himself  would  have  called 
a  parlous  case.  According  to  the  general  opinion  of  his 
critics,  he  knew  nothing  worth  speaking  of  about  books. 
As  a  consequence  he  could  not  draw  men.  On  the 
other  side  he  was  shut  out  from  high  society.  Accord- 
ingly he  could  not  draw  women. 

Montesquieu  can  be  excused  for  accepting  and  even 
improving  upon  the  opinion  of  others  in  a  matter  about 
which  he  himself  knew  nothing  at  all.  It  is  clear  that 
the  views  he  reported  were  current.  They  strike  us 
now  as  almost  inconceivably  silly.  Yet  Queen  Caroline 
was  very  far  from  being  a  fool.  In  the  knowledge  of 
literature  we  know  that  she  surpassed  immeasurably 
her  grandson  who  thought  that  so  much  of  Shakespeare 
was  sad  stuff.  Chesterfield  too,  limited  in  many  ways 
as  was  his  taste,  was  destitute  of  neither  sense  nor  in- 
sight. We  can  in  truth  almost  pardon  the  lack  of  appre- 
ciativeness  in  them  when  we  find  a  professed  student  of 
the  dramatist  expressing  not  essentially  dissimilar  views. 
"  Shakespeare,"  wrote  Upton,  "  seems  to  me  not  to  have 
known  such  a  character  as  a  fine  lady ;  nor  does  he  ever 
recognize  their  dignity.  .  .  .  Instead  of  the  Lady  Bettys 
and  Lady  Fannys,  who  shine  so  much  in  modern  come- 
dies, he  brings  you  on  the  stage  plain  Mrs.  Ford  and 

1  CEuvres  de  Montesquieu,  vol.  vii.  p.  358  (ed.  of  1822). 

372 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

Mrs.  Page,  two  honest  good-humored  wives  of  two  plain 
country  gentlemen.  His  tragic  ladies  are  rather  seen 
than  heard ;  such  as  Miranda,  Desdemona,  Ophelia,  and 
Portia."  1  Further  he  observed  that  the  less  that  women 
appear  on  the  stage,  generally  the  better  is  the  story ; 
and  unmarried  women  are  left  entirely  out  in  his  best 
plays,  as  in  '  Macbeth,'  '  Othello,'  '  Julius  Caesar.'  This 
must  be  regarded  as  most  extraordinary  criticism,  that 
is,  if  anything  in  criticism  can  be  deemed  extraordi- 
nary. There  is  a  hopeless,  helpless  imbecility  about 
it  which  makes  us  realize  that  Shakespeare  did  not  have 
to  wait  till  later  times  to  exercise  his  peculiar  power 
of  turning  the  brains  of  even  sensible  men  and  mak- 
ing them  talk  unmitigated  drivel.  For  Upton  was  a 
scholar  and  in  some  ways  a  man  of  decided  ability. 
He  had  read,  furthermore,  the  works  he  thus  criticised, 
even  though  he  had  read  them  to  so  little  purpose.  If 
such  a  man  could  entertain  such  an  opinion,  we  need 
not  wonder  at  the  prevalence  of  mistaken  beliefs  on 
the  part  of  others  who  derived  the  little  knowledge  they 
had  of  Shakespeare  from  hearsay. 

It  is  not  until  1775  that  I  have  come  across  a  view  of 
Shakespeare's  female  characters  at  all  resembling  the 
one  now  universally  held.  It  occurs  in  a  fragmentary 
poem  contained  in  a  novel  which  came  out  that  year 
entitled  '  The  Correspondents.'  This  consisted  of  let- 
ters which  purport  to  have  passed  between  Lord  Lyttle- 
ton,  who  had  died  two  years  before,  and  the  woman  who 
became  the  wife  of  his  son.  The  correspondence  was 
spurious,  but  for  a  while  was  deemed  genuine  in  certain 

1  Critical  Observations  on  Shakespeare  (1740),  p.  83. 

373 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

quarters,  and  on  that  account  occasioned  a  certain 
degree  of  interest.  But  it  excited  then  more  attention 
and  deserves  more  now  for  the  tribute  it  paid  to  the 
skill  of  the  dramatist  in  delineating  female  character. 
The  writer  of  the  work  was  probably  a  woman ;  but 
whether  so  or  not,  the  poem  mentioned  celebrated  in 
the  most  glowing  terms  the  fact  that  wise  unerring 
nature  had  made  Shakespeare  both  the  judge  and  friend 
of  womankind.  The  innocence  of  Miranda,  the  virgin- 
honor  of  Isabella,  the  filial  affection  of  Cordelia,  the 
wisdom  of  Portia,  in  fine,  all  the  characteristics  of  the 
various  female  characters  that  appear  in  his  pages,  are 
made  the  subject  of  recognition  and  of  eulogy.  Con- 
temporary criticism  in  the  leading  magazine  of  the  day 
spoke  of  this  piece  of  poetry  as  having  placed  Shake- 
speare "in  a  new  point  of  view."1 

Undoubtedly  similar  opinions  had  been  entertained 
long  before,  even  though  not  expressed.  They  were, 
so  to  speak,  in  the  air.  Le  Tourneur,  about  this  time 
engaged  in  the  translation  of  Shakespeare  into  French, 
and  a  man  evidently  of  peculiar  delicacy  and  refine- 
ment, was  struck  by  the  beauty  of  these  female  char- 
acters, and  so  expressed  himself  when  his  version 
appeared.  Even  the  year  before  the  novel  just  men- 
tioned came  out,  Richardson  had  devoted  to  Imogen 
one  of  the  essays  in  his  volume  on  the  characters  of 
Shakespeare.  It  was  not  indeed  a  very  illuminating 
or  inspiring  treatise.  We  hardly  feel  ourselves  much 
advanced  when  we  are  told,  as  he  tells  us,  that  "  if  we 

1  Gentleman's  Magazine,  August,  1775,  vol.  xlv.  p.  371.    The  poem 
can  be  found  on  p.  394. 

37  i 


CONFLICTING  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

see  a  man  deeply  affected,  we  are  persuaded  that  he  has 
suffered  some  dreadful  calamity  or  that  he  believes  it 
to  be  so."  Still  these  occasional  outbreaks  of  the  plati- 
tudinous ought  not  to  hinder  our  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  he  regarded  the  heroine  of  Cymbeline  as 
more  distinctly  worthy  of  study  than  the  men  who  ap- 
pear in  that  play.  Some  years  later  to  his  treatise 
dealing  with  certain  other  personages  of  the  Shake- 
spearean drama,  Richardson  appended  a  general  dis- 
quisition about  the  female  characters  found  in  it,  in 
the  guise  of  a  letter  to  a  friend.  The  friend,  whether 
real  or  imaginary,  had  taken  the  then  common  ground 
that  these  characters  were  inferior  to  the  male  ones 
portrayed  by  the  poet.  It  was  a  view  which  Richardson 
stoutly  combated.  His  antagonist,  it  must  be  confessed, 
was  an  easy  prey  ;  and  some  of  the  opinions  ascribed  to 
him  are  so  absurd  that  it  seems  as  if  they  could  not 
have  been  invented,  Ivsit  must  have  been  the  production 
of  a  real  personage.  It  was  not,  however,  the  contents  of 
this  so-called  letter  that  make  it  noteworthy.  It  is  the 
fact  that  it  is  the  first  professional  estimate  of  the  kind 
in  our  literature ;  that  it  is  the  first  instance  in  which 
criticism  exhibits  perception  of  an  excellence  which  it 
would  seem  to  have  required  peculiar  dulness  to  miss. 

The  growth  of  the  appreciation  of  Shakespeare  was 
far  from  being  confined  to  the  estimate  taken  of  the 
female  characters  he  had  portrayed.  It  extended  all 
along  the  line.  We  have  seen  how  belief  in  the  car- 
dinal principles  of  the  school  which  upheld  the  regular 
drama  had  been  slowly  but  steadily  sapped  during  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  maintained  nothing  but  a  lin- 

375 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

gering  life  as  it  reached  its  close.  But  though  the 
house  was  being  swept  and  garnished,  its  rightful  occu- 
pant had  not  yet  come  to  take  possession.  It  is  only 
in  Maurice  Morgann's  essay  on  the  dramatic  character 
of  Sir  John  Falstaff"  that  I  seem  to  see  indicated  dimly 
the  view  of  Shakespeare  which  was  developed  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  which  reigns  triumphant  to- 
day. The  agencies  which  had  been  working  for  it  had 
been  in  existence  from  the  beginning,  but  they  then 
worked  under  the  surface  rather  than  in  the  open  day. 
It  was  not  advocated  by  any  body  of  persons  like  the 
two  just  described,  constituting  distinct  critical  classes. 
Yet  its  influence  can  be  traced  even  when  it  was  least 
apparent.  Animated  by  that  ardent  devotion  with 
which  a  great  writer  inspires  his  adherents,  it  took  the 
ground,  either  avowedly  or  by  implication,  that  the  cen- 
sures passed  upon  Shakespeare  were  unjustifiable ;  that 
the  things  for  which  he  was  condemned  were  the  things 
for  which  he  should  be  praised ;  and  that  the  criticism 
which  represented  him  as  being  deficient  in  art  was  itself 
based  upon  ignorance  of  what  really  constituted  art.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  it  was  at  first  a  blind  faith  rather 
than  one  which  rested  upon  knowledge.  It  contented 
itself  with  believing  in  Shakespeare  ;  it  rarely  went  far- 
ther than  to  maintain  that  anything  which  Shakespeare 
did  waj  right  because  it  was  what  Shakespeare  did. 

From  the  very  outset,  however,  this  view  was  felt 
even  where  it  was  not  distinctly  perceived.  While 
it  did  not  proclaim  itself  openly,  it  exhibited  the  dis- 
position to  resent  any  attack  that  was  made  upon  its 
favorite.     Dryden,  full  of  praise  as  he  was  for  his  great 

376 


CONFLICTING   EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   VIEWS 

predecessor,  fell  under  severe  censure  for  the  attitude 
which  he  at  first  occasionally  ventured  to  take.  As 
time  passed  on,  this  disposition  became  more  pro- 
nounced. Pope  complained  of  it.  Whether  he  did  so 
in  pretence  or  earnest  is  of  no  consequence,  so  long 
as  his  words  bear  witness  to  the  fact  itself.  In  what 
seems  to  us  a  peculiarly  unnecessary  protest  against  the 
preference  exhibited  in  his  own  day  for  the  writers  of 
the  past,  he  took  occasion  to  pay  his  respects  to  those 
who  insisted  that  Shakespeare  should  receive  praise  for 
practices  which  really  merited  condemnation.  He  pro- 
fessed indignation  that  men  should  censure  modern  works, 
not  because  they  were  bad,  but  because  they  were  new ; 

"  While  if  our  elders  break  all  reason's  laws, 
These  fools  demand  not  pardon,  but  applause." 

That  the  allusion  was  here  to  the  dramatist  is  made 

further  evident  by  the  fact  that  these  lines  immediately 

precede  the  following  passage  in  which  direct  reference 

is  made  to  the  criticism  to  which  those  became  subject 

who   presumed   to   point  out   errors   in   Shakespeare's 

writings :  — 

"  On  Avon's  bank,  where  flowers  eternal  blow, 
If  I  but  ask  if  any  weed  can  grow ; 
One  tragic  sentence  if  I  dare  deride 
Which  Betterton's  grave  action  dignified, 
Or  well-mouthed  Booth  with  emphasis  proclaims, 
Though  but  perhaps  a  muster-roll  of  names, 
How  will  our  fathers  rise  up  in  a  rage, 
And  swear  all  shame  is  lost  in  Georere's  acre  !  " l 

The  necessity  of   conforming  the  sentiments  of  his 
imitation  to  those  of  the  Latin  original  compelled  Pope 

1  Imitations  of  Horace,  Epistle  to  Augustus  (1T."7),  lines  119-12G. 

377 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

to  ascribe  to  the  fathers  what  could  have  been  true  of 
his  immediate  contemporaries  only,  and  to  give  to  their 
feelings   also    too   heightened   a   color.     But,  however 
exaggerated  his  words  may  be  as  a  representation  of 
the  view  generally  entertained  in  his  age,  as  unques- 
tionably   they    are    exaggerated,    they   had    a    certain 
foundation  of   fact  then,  and  have  now  become  essen- 
tially exact  as  a  representation  of  the  view  prevalent 
to-day.     The  sweep  of  the  revolution  which  has  taken 
place  during  the  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  years 
that  have  gone  by  since  they  were  written,  could  find 
no  better  illustration  of   itself   than  in   the   reception 
which  would  now  be  accorded  to  criticisms  of  the  kind 
which  have  been  quoted  in  the  preceding  pages.     No 
one  is  likely  at  the  present  day  to  entertain  the  opinions 
contained  in  the  passages  cited;   at  least  he  can  be 
relied  on,  in  that  case,  not  to  express  them,  if  he  has 
any  regard   for  his  own  reputation.     For  the  feeling 
that  with  us  holds  Shakespeare  as  practically  faultless 
is   even   more   tyrannical   than   that  which   once   pro- 
nounced him  as  abounding  in  faults.     It  endures  no 
contradiction.     It  is  inclined  to  be  impatient  with  any- 
thing which  savors  of  even  the  mildest  form  of  criti- 
cism.    Nor  does  it  base  itself   any  longer   upon  mere 
sentiment.     It  rests,  according  to  its  own  full  convic- 
tion,   upon   scientific    demonstration.      It   insists   that 
Shakespeare's  work  was  not,  as  was  one  time  the  com- 
mon   cry,  a  result   due    to   the   agency  of   a   gigantic 
natural  force,  acting  independently  of  law,  but  of  one 
in  which  truth  to  nature  has  had  added  unto  it  the 
perfection  of  highest  art. 

378 


CHAPTER  X 

SHAKESPEARE  AS   DRAMATIST  AND   MORALIST 

Hardly  a  generation  passes  in  which  some  one  — 
frequently  some  one  of  considerable  ability  and  reputa- 
tion —  does  not  come  forward  to  show  us  the  utter 
insufficiency  of  Shakespeare ;  to  inform  us  that  he  is 
obsolete ;  to  demonstrate  in  the  most  incontrovertible 
way  that  the  interest  in  his  productions  is  purely  facti- 
tious, begotten  of  traditional  beliefs  and  prejudices,  kept 
alive  not  by  any  real  liking,  but  by  a  blind  unreasoning 
faith  in  the  duty  to  admire.  Were  his  works  now 
brought  out  for  the  first  time,  divested  consequently  of 
the  repute  which  has  gathered  about  them  from  the  com- 
mendations of  successive  generations,  we  are  assured 
that  they  would  meet  with  scant  success  upon  the  stage, 
if  indeed  with  any  success  at  all.  A  modern  audience 
would  not  care  for  them ;  in  all  probability  it  would 
refuse  to  give  them  more  than  a  single  trial. 

This  is  the  doctrine  wMch  has  been  preached  at  fre- 
quent intervals  during  the  past  two  hundred  years. 
Two  or  three  illustrations  of  it  have  been  given  in  the 
course  of  this  work.  It  turns  up,  indeed,  with  the  reg- 
ularity of  certain  epidemics.  It  is  preached,  too,  with  all 
that  fervor  of  conviction  which  so  often  does  duty  for 
reason  and  truth.  Occasionally  some  are  impressed  by 
it ;  at  least  they  think  they  are.     Its  futility,  however, 

379 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A    DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

is  shown  by  the  fact  that  nobody  ever  takes  serious 
offence  at  it  or  at  him  who  proclaims  it.  One  would  as 
soon  think  of  feeling  indignation  at  the  man  who  denies 
the  doctrine  of  gravitation  or  insists  that  the  sun  re- 
volves about  the  earth.  The  world  accordingly  listens 
with  a  sort  of  pleased  wonder  at  this  regularly  recurring 
exposure  of  Shakespeare's  pretensions  as  a  dramatist. 
It  is  inclined  to  approve  of  the  utterance  of  these  specu- 
lations which  disturb  temporarily  the  monotony  of  es- 
tablished beliefs.  It  is  entertained  for  a  while  by  the 
criticism ;  it  is  often  struck  with  an  honest  admiration  for 
the  cleverness  of  the  critic.  Then  it  proceeds  to  forget 
what  is  written,  and  in  process  of  time  to  forget  its  writer. 
In  contrast  with  all  the  other  writers  for  the  English 
stage  one  fact  in  the  case  of  Shakespeare  stands  out  con- 
spicuously. No  year  goes  by  without  witnessing  the  per- 
formance of  some  of  his  plays  somewhere.  We  do  not 
need  to  stop  even  here.  Not  a  year  has  gone  by  since  the 
theatre  was  re-opened  at  the  Restoration,  which  has  not 
seen  pieces  of  his  acted.  No  other  playwright  of  our 
tongue  has  such  a  record.  The  assertion  used  once  to 
be  made,  and  is  sometimes  repeated  now,  that  Garrick 
was  the  first  to  make  Shakespeare  popular.  Nothing 
could  be  farther  from  the  truth.  That  greatest  of  actors 
undoubtedly  did  much  to  deepen  the  impression  which 
the  greatest  of  dramatists  had  already  made  upon  the 
theatre-going  public.  His  wonderful  impersonations  of 
certain  characters  gave  to  many  a  clearer  and  higher 
conception  of  the  meaning  and  power  that  lay  in  the 
words  he  recited.  But  while  he  strengthened  the  inter- 
est men  felt,  he  was  very  far  from  being  the  first  to 

380 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

create  it.     Long  before  Garrick  was  born,  Shakespeare 
had  been  constantly  styled  the  matchless,  the  inimitable, 
the  divine.     Ample  testimony  can  be  produced  from  tho 
latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  to  establish  the 
fact  of  his  increasing  popularity ;  to  prove  how  steadily 
he  had  even  then  passed  all  other  playwrights  in  the 
general  estimation,  leaving  behind   him   in   particular, 
Fletcher,  who  for  a  while  had  been  preferred  by  the  or- 
dinary mass  of  theatre-goers,  and  Ben   Jonson,  whose 
superiority  had  been   insisted  upon  by  the  select  few. 
Early   in   the  eighteenth  century   the  dramatist,  John 
Hughes,  bore  witness  to  the  still  earlier  reputation  of 
the  great  master.      Writing  to  the  ;  Guardian '  in  the 
character  of   an   old   man,    he   expressed   his   pleasure 
above    all   things  "in   observing  that  the  tragedies   of 
Shakespeare,  which  in  my  youthful   days  have  so  fre- 
quently filled  my  eyes  with  tears,  hold  their  rank  still 
and  are  the  great  support  of  the  theatre." 1 

Every  generation  has  its  temporary  dramatic  favorites; 
at  times,  even  every  year.  They  come  and  go.  Shake- 
speare always  remains.  They  are  cried  up  for  a  while 
and  then  neglected.  He  alone  endures.  His  greatness 
as  a  poet  will  explain  the  constantly  increasing  circula- 
tion of  his  works  in  the  world  of  readers.  In  that  as  in 
other  things  he  has  broken  all  records.  It  was  as  true 
of  him  at  the  beginning  as  it  is  now.  That  he  was  the 
most  popular  dramatist  of  his  time,  while  he  was  writing 
for  the  stage,  admits  of  no  real  question,  though  it  has 
sometimes  been  questioned.  But  it  is  further  true  that 
his  plays,  so  far  as  they  were  allowed  to  be  printed, 

1  No.  37,  April  23,  1713. 
381 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

proved  as  successful  with  readers  as  they  were  with 
auditors.  It  is  to  be  kept  in  mind  that  not  only  was  the 
population  of  England  then  comparatively  small,  but  also 
that  the  proportion  of  those  interested  in  books  was  com- 
paratively smaller  than  now.  Nearly  all  the  dramatists 
whose  productions  were  published  had  to  be  content 
with  a  single  edition.  Occasional  exceptions  there  are 
in  the  case  of  particular  plays :  but  they  are  only  occa- 
sional. The  fact  was  true  in  most  instances  of  Ben 
Jonson,  at  the  very  time  he  ranked  at  the  head  of  Eng- 
lish men  of  letters.  It  was  not  true  of  Shakespeare. 
Of  the  sixteen  plays  which  were  published  in  quarto 
form  during  his  lifetime,  the  large  majority  appeared 
before  his  death  in  more  than  one  edition,  five  of  them 
in  several.  The  only  author  of  the  whole  period  who 
has  approached  anywhere  his  success  in  this  respect  was 
Fletcher ;  and  Fletcher's  success,  so  far  as  it  went,  did 
not  take  place  until  he  had  been  some  time  in  his  grave. 
A  like  statement  is  true  of  the  complete  editions  of  the 
plays.  Shakespeare  was  the  first  dramatist  of  his  time 
whose  works  public  interest  caused  to  be  brought  out  in 
a  collected  form ;  for  the  production  of  the  Ben  Jonson 
folio  of  1616  was  the  act  of  the  author  himself,  and  not 
of  his  admirers.  Furthermore,  when  once  published, 
no  one  of  his  contemporaries  equalled  him  in  the  fre- 
quency of  republication  during  the  century  in  which  his 
death  took  place.  Since  that  century  no  one  has  ap- 
proached him  even  distantly.  He  is  so  far  first  that 
there  is  no  second  in  sight. 

But  while  the  inherent  worth  of  his  matter  will  ac- 
count for  his  popularity  with  those  who  read,  it  cannot 

382 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

altogether  explain  the  hold  which  he  has  retained  upon 
those  who  come  merely  to  hear.  The  recital  of  beauti- 
ful poetry  is  sure  to  be  attractive  to  a  certain  limited 
number,  but  unaided  it  will  never  keep  long  the  at- 
tention of  the  great  mass  of  men.  How  then  shall  we 
account  for  the  continued  success  of  Shakespeare  as  a 
writer  not  for  the  closet  but  for  the  stage  ?  For  even 
here  he  has  done  much  more  than  retain  the  grasp  winch 
he  early  acquired  over  the  prepossessions  of  his  own  race 
in  his  favor.  Interest  in  his  pieces  as  acting  pieces  has 
extended  over  no  small  share  of  the  civilized  world.  It 
has  triumphed  over  the  disadvantage  of  translation. 
And  desirous  as  are  men  to  see  his  works  played,  equally 
desirous  are  men  to  play  them.  No  aspiring  actor  of  our 
race  feels  that  he  has  won  his  spurs,  that  he  has  achieved 
the  highest  distinction  in  his  art,  until  he  has  made  his 
mark  in  some  Shakespearean  character.  This  is  true 
at  least  of  the  tragic  stage.  Other  playwrights  make 
demand  upon  histrionic  ability :  to  gain  pre-eminent 
success  in  Shakespearean  representation  evinces  his- 
trionic genius.  So  it  has  been  in  the  past;  so  it  will 
be  in  the  future.  In  the  history  of  the  English  theatre 
there  is  not  a  tragedian  of  the  first  rank,  from  the 
days  of  Betterton  to  the  present  time,  whose  name  is 
not  associated  with  some  of  the  plays  of  the  greatest  of 
English  dramatists.  None  the  less  his  total  unfitness  to 
satisfy  the  requirements  of  the  modern  audience  will 
be  demonstrated  aqain  and  ayain.  But  his  works  will 
continue  to  be  performed  long  after  these  successive 
demonstrations  of  his  unfitness  to  please  have  passed 
entirely  from  the  memory  of  men. 

383 


1^ 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

For  this  world-wide  and  constantly  increasing  success 
there  is  but  one  rational  explanation.     I  have  sought  to 
show  in  the  preceding  chapters  that  Shakespeare  was  not 
only  a  great  dramatic  artist,  but  that  —  so  far  at  least  as 
English  literature  is  concerned  —  he  is  the.  great  dra- 
matic artist.     In  that  fact  lies  the  secret  of  his  hold 
upon  successive  generations  of  the  men  of  his  own  race, 
and  of  the  extension  of  it  over  the  men  of  alien  races. 
It   is   the  perfection  of  his  art  which  has  enabled  his 
productions  to  outlive  the  hostile  criticism  which  once 
decried  his  methods   as   irregular,  and   the   results    as 
monstrous.     Of  all  the  idle  suppositions,  in  the  infinite 
number  of  idle  suppositions  which  have  been  put  forth 
about  Shakespeare,  none  is  more  baseless  than  the  one 
which  so  long  held  sway,  that  he  was  an  intellectually 
irresponsible  man  of  genius,  who  wrote  solely  under  the 
pressure  of  circumstances,  or  under  the  compulsion  of  a 
momentary  overwhelming  inspiration,  doing  his   work 
without  being  conscious  of  what  it  was  he  did  or  why  he 
did  it.     It  almost  passes  human  comprehension  to  imag- 
ine how  any  one  could  have  read  with  care  the  second 
scene  of  the  second  act  of  '  Hamlet'  and  not  have  recog- 
nized the  profound  interest  the  dramatist  took  in  his  art, 
as  well  as  his  knowledge  of  its  theory.     Yet  this  indif- 
ference and  ignorance  on  his  part  was  the  cant  of  the 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years  that  followed  the  Restora- 
tion.    Nor  has  it  yet  died  out  entirely,  though  uttered 
now  with  bated  breath  and  faltering  voice.     We  begin 
at  last  to  recognize  the  applicability  to  Shakespeare  of 
Lessing's  dictum,  that  while  the  great  critic  may  not  be 
a  great  poet,  the  great  poet  is  invariably  a  great  critic. 

384 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

By  this  he  means  he  judges  scrutinizingly  the  methods 
he  adopts,  and  does  not  adopt  them  unless  approved  by 
his  judgment.  Whatever  he  does,  therefore,  is  done 
consciously.  The  conclusions  he  reaches  may  be  wrong. 
If  wrong,  he  must  abide  by  the  consequences  of  his  mis- 
takes. But  if  the  great  artist  choose  erroneously,  he 
likewise  chooses  deliberately.  It  is  never  with  him  a 
haphazard  blundering  either  upon  the  wrong  or  the 
right. 

Time  has  largely  swept  away  the  cloud  of  learned  de- 
traction which  once  gathered  about  the  name  of  Shake- 
speare under  the  guise  of  upholding  art.  We  are  coming 
to  recognize  that  the  course  he  followed  was  not  due  to 
his  ignorance  of  the  rules  upon  which  his  critics  insisted, 
but  upon  his  knowledge  of  their  inapplicability.  His 
independence  he  showed  in  other  ways.  We  have  the 
right,  for  instance,  to  infer,  not  merely  from  his  general 
but  from  his  particular  conduct,  that  he  cared  nothing 
for  that  laborious  and  pedantic  trifling  which  aims  to 
make  the  creations  of  the  imagination  conform  to  the 
results  —  the  frequently  changing  results  also  —  of  the 
latest  historical  and  archaeological  investigation.  It  is 
quite  clear  from  Ben  Jonson's  words  that  his  endow- 
ment of  Bohemia  with  a  sea-coast  had  provoked  contem- 
porary criticism.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  suppose  him  to 
have  remained  ignorant  of  the  mistake.  Yet  he  clearly 
did  not  take  it  to  heart:  he  certainly  never  troubled 
himself  to  have  the  passage  altered.  Greene's  authority 
was  enough  for  him,  as  it  was  for  putting  Delphos  on  an 
island.  Unquestionably  there  is  a  point  beyond  which 
the  defiance  of  the  known  and  actual  ought  never  to  sro. 
25  385 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

But  it  is  a  point  that  varies  from  age  to  age.  It  must 
always  be  fixed  by  the  knowledge  which  the  ordinary 
reader  or  hearer  may  be  presumed  to  have  then,  not  by 
the  more  accurate  knowledge  of  which  later  times  may 
become  possessed.  This  view  needs  to  be  insisted  upon 
in  an  age  like  the  present,  when  writers  of  works  of 
imagination  seem  too  often  to  feel  themselves  con- 
strained to  make  their  facts  accord  precisely  with  the 
conclusions  of  scholarly  research,  and  in  consequence 
spend  strength  upon  collecting  tithes  of  mint  and  anise 
and  cumin,  with  the  inevitable  result  of  neglecting  the 
■weightier  matters  of  the  law.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
poet  or  the  novelist  to  paint  men ;  it  is  of  altogether 
secondary  importance  to  paint  their  costumes. 

But  if  time  has  vindicated  the  artistic  truthfulness  of 
Shakespeare's  practice,  the  vindication  it  has  brought 
does  not  involve  the  assumption  that  he  invariably  lived 
up  to  his  own  ideals.  However  conformable  to  the  high- 
est art  were  his  general  methods,  few  there  are  who  will 
be  disposed  to  maintain  that  he  committed  no  errors  of 
detail.  His  most  enthusiastic  admirers  have  not  sousfht 
to  deny  the  occurrence  in  his  writings  of  things  repre- 
hensible and  indefensible.  All  which  they  have  pro- 
tested against  is  the  disposition  to  attach  to  these  lapses 
a  consequence  which  is  out  of  all  proportion  to  their 
real  importance.  Shakespeare's  indulgence  in  that  low- 
est form  of  intellectual  depravity,  quibbles  and  plays 
■upon  words,  cannot  be  questioned.  It  was  the  literary 
vice  of  his  time.  Several  of  his  greatest  contemporaries 
were  addicted  to  it  also.  But  in  an  a^e  where  most  men 
were  vicious,  he  was  the  most  vicious  of  all.     Further- 

386 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

more,  this  belief  in  the  conformity  of  his  methods  with 
the  requirements  of  the  highest  art  is  consonant  with  the 
admission  that  inaccuracies  and  inadvertences  appear 
not  unfrequently  in  his  works.  There  are  a  number  of 
instances  where,  owing  either  to  rapidity  of  composition, 
or  to  inattention,  or  to  subsequent  alteration,  a  fact  or  a 
condition  of  things  in  one  part  of  the  play  is  not  made 
congruous  with  a  fact  or  condition  in  another  part.  To 
reconcile  these  discrepancies  commentators  have  felt 
themselves  obliged  to  put  forth  labored  explanations. 
It  was  at  one  time  not  an  unfrequent  practice  with  them 
to  impute  inconsistencies  of  this  sort  —  in  fact,  anything 
else  to  which  they  took  a  dislike  —  to  the  unauthorized 
interpolations  of  actors.  This  may  have  been  true  in 
some  instances  ;  it  can  hardly  have  been  true  in  all.  At 
best  the  assumption  is  a  purely  conjectural  one  ;  and  so 
long  as  not  a  particle  of  evidence  can  be  adduced  in  its 
support,  we  are  forbidden  to  plead  any  such  defence 
for  what  appears. 

Far  worse  than  these  —  which  even  when  taken  col- 
lectively are  of  little  real  importance  —  are  occasionally 
found  serious  violations  of  the  truth  of  life.  These 
abound  in  the  works  of  many,  one  might  fairly  say  of 
most,  dramatists.  They  are  infrequent  in  Shakespeare ; 
but  they  nevertheless  occur.  Such,  for  instance,  is  the 
offer  of  Valentine  to  surrender  the  woman  he  loves  and 
who  loves  him  to  the  faithless  Proteus  who  has  deserted 
his  own  mistress  and  acted  a  treacherous  part  towards 
his  friend.1  The  conviction  of  the  impropriety  of  this 
representation  has  been  so  general  that  efforts  of  all 

1  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  act  v.  sc.  4. 
387 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

sorts  have  been  put  forth  to  explain  away  a  proceeding 
which  is  as  indefensible  dramatically  as  it  is  morally. 
The  jurist  Blackstone  proposed  to  transfer  the  speech  to 
Thurio.  Coleridge  had  no  doubt  of  the  passage  being 
corrupt,  or  at  least  unfinished.  By  others  we  are  told 
that  the  offer  is  characteristic  of  the  romantic  ideas  prev- 
alent in  that  day  as  to  the  obligations  which  the  tie  of 
friendship  imposed.  But  this  is  a  tribute  which  love 
could  never  have  paid  to  friendship  in  any  period.  Fur- 
thermore, it  would  have  been  morally  wrong  to  have 
paid  it  here ;  for  it  affected  the  lives  of  others  as  well  as 
that  of  the  man  who  makes  the  offer.  Even  could  it  be 
accepted  as  a  true  picture  of  the  feelings  and  ideas  of 
some  particular  century,  its  appearance  in  this  place 
gives  it  a  character  of  universality.  It  is  therefore  in- 
excusable. Shakespeare  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all 
time.  His  representation  of  life  should  in  consequence 
be  true  of  all  time.  Such  it  usually  is ;  and  it  has  sur- 
vived because  it  is  independent  of  changes  of  taste  or 
custom. 

There  are  found  in  his  works  a  few  such  variations 
from  what  we  feel  to  be  just  and  natural,  though  per- 
haps none  so  noticeable  as  this.  They  belong  to  de- 
tails, and  not  to  any  single  work  as  a  whole.  To  this 
there  is  one  exception,  —  the  comedy  of  '  All 's  Well 
that  Ends  Well.'  It  is  a  play  which  has  never  met 
with  much  favor  on  the  modern  stage.  First  revived 
by  Giffard,  in  1741,  at  his  theatre  in  Goodman's  Fields, 
it  was  acted,  a  few  times  after  that,  during  the  rest  of 
the  century,  at  both  Drury  Lane  and  Covent  Garden. 
But  the  success  it  met  with,  such  as  it  was,  came  mainly 
N.  388 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

from  the  representation  of  Parolles  and  the  episode  of 
his  exposure  and  disgrace.     It  was  but  little  due  to  the 
interest  inspired  by  the  story  itself  or  by  its  chief  char- 
acters.    Not  even  the  genius  of  Shakespeare  has  been 
equal  to  making  men  accept  with  pleasure  the  plot  of 
this  comedy,   or   to  respond  very  warmly  to  the  eulo- 
giums  passed  upon  the  heroine,  worthy  of  admiration 
as  she  is  in  many  ways.     Of  the  hero  hardly  any  one 
has  ever  been  found  to  say  a  good  word.     "I  cannot 
reconcile  my  heart   to  Bertram,"  wrote    Dr.   Johnson: 
"  a  man  noble  without  generosity,  and  young  without 
truth;  who  marries  Helen  as  a  coward,  and  leaves  her 
as  a  profligate:    when  she  is  dead  by  his  unkindness, 
sneaks   home   to   a   second   marriage,   is  accused  by  a 
woman  he  has  wronged,  defends  himself  by  falsehood, 
and  is  dismissed  to  happiness."     This  hostile  estimate, 
in  spite  of  its  injustice,  has  set  the  style  of  most  of  the 
comment  upon  the  hero  of  the  piece ;  while  no  amount 
of  praise  has  been  thought  too  lavish  to  spend  upon  the 
heroine. 

As  Bertram  is  drawn,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he 
is  not  a  highly  estimable  personage.  Morally  the  best 
thing  to  his  credit  is  a  high  degree  of  merely  brute 
valor,  while  intellectually  his  lack  of  perspicacity  makes 
him  an  easy  prey  to  the  pretensions  of  a  braggart  and 
a  coward.  But  so  far  as  his  relations  with  the  heroine 
are  concerned,  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  on  his 
side.  He  has  forced  upon  him  a  wife  he  does  not 
desire.  Not  merely  are  his  own  inclinations  disre- 
garded, but  his  pride  of  birth  is  outraged.  He  is  a 
victim,  and  by  no  means  a  willing  victim.     He  natu- 

389 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

rally  hates  the  chains  which  have  been  imposed  upon 
him  by  a  power  to  which  he  is  constrained  to  submit. 
Nor  can  any  excellence  in  Helen's  character  counter- 
balance the  fundamental  fact  that  she  has  been  untrue 
to  her  sex.  She  persistently  pursues  a  man  who  is  not 
merely  indifferent  but  averse.  The  situation  is  not 
made  less,  but  even  more  disagreeable  by  its  being  a 
chase  on  her  part  of  a  man  not  worth  following.  All 
the  explanations  given  of  her  conduct,  all  the  tributes 
paid  to  her  character,  cannot  veil  the  fact  that  she 
takes  advantage  of  the  favor  of  the  king  to  do  an  essen- 
tially unwomanly  act.  Higher  station  or  great  supe- 
riority of  fortune  might  justify  a  woman  in  going  a 
long  way  in  making  advances  to  a  lover  of  lower  posi- 
tion, who  for  that  very  reason  would  naturally  be  reluc- 
tant to  put  forward  his  pretensions.  But  Helen  has  no 
such  excuse.  Whatever  be  her  intellectual  and  moral 
excellence,  she  has  nothing  which  he  cares  for  to  give 
to  the  husband  upon  whom  she  has  forced  herself  in  the 
face  of  his  outspoken  unwillingness.  In  real  life  we 
know  how  we  should  all  think  and  feel  in  such  a  case. 
Our  sympathies  would  not  go  out  to  the  successful 
schemer,  but  to  the  hunted  man  who  is  compelled  to 
have  associated  with  him  in  the  closest  relation  of  life  a 
woman  for  whom  he  feels  dislike.  So  far  from  believ- 
ing with  Johnson  that  Bertram  is  dismissed  to  happi- 
ness, we  may  be  sure  that  under  ordinary  conditions 
nothing  but  misery  will  be  the  fate  of  a  couple  where 
the  consciousness  of  difference  of  station  would  add  to 
the  estrangement  produced  by  difference  of  character, 
and  where   fraud  has  been  the  only  agency  to   bring 

390 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

about  the  consummation  of  a  union  which  could  never 
have  been  effected  in  the  first  place  save  by  force. 

It  is  rarely  the  case,  however,  that  Shakespeare  out- 
rages our  feelings,  as  in  the  two  instances  just  described. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  have  constant  occasion  to  ob- 
serve how  vigilantly  everything  has  been  foreseen  and 
cared  for,  so  that  nothing  may  jar  upon  our  conceptions 
of  the  natural  and  the  proper.  Upon  all  the  acts  and 
actors  in  his  drama  was  almost  invariably  fixed  the 
keenest  critical  sense,  though  it  was  sometimes  not  the 
sense  of  later  and  inferior  critics.  No  other  dramatist 
in  our  tongue,  in  dealing  with  his  characters,  has  been 
so  uniformly  consistent  in  the  adaptation  of  means  to 
ends,  so  solicitous  to  order  events  that  nothing  shall 
seem  improbable  or  out  of  the  way.  In  reading  the 
works  of  many  of  his  contemporaries  we  feel  that  the 
personages  of  their  plays  talk  and  act  as  in  real  life  no 
rational  beings  could  be  expected  to  talk  and  act  under 
the  circumstances.  They  resort  to  the  most  unheard 
of  and  unnatural  devices  to  bring  about  the  results  at 
which  they  aim.  The  moment,  indeed,  we  subject  to 
scrutiny  a  scene  of  Shakespeare's  with  a  similar  one 
attempted  by  an  imitator,  we  recognize  at  once  that 
careful  preparation  in  the  adaptation  of  means  to  ends 
which  is  characteristic  of  the  highest  art. 

Contrast  in  this  matter  his  '  Tempest '  with  '  The  Sea 
Voyage  '  of  Fletcher.  In  both  plays  it  is  necessary  that 
the  audience  should  be  informed  of  how  the  situation 
depicted  came  to  exist.  In  'The  Tempest  '  it  is  done 
with  the  perfection  of  naturalness.  Miranda  has  never 
heard  the  circumstances  under  which  as  a  child  she  has 

391 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

been  brought  to  the  island.  It  is  something  which  we 
should  expect  her  to  have  learned  long  before.  It  was 
natural  that  she  should  have  sought  to  know  it;  she 
tells  us  that  she  has  made  inquiry  about  it  time  and 
again.  But  the  information  has  been  withheld  for 
satisfactory  reasons  until  it  became  necessary  that  the 
audience  should  possess  it  as  well  as  she.  Accordingly 
nothing  is  said  or  done  which  is  not  fitting  in  itself  and 
fitting  to  the  occasion.  In  'The  Sea  Voyage,' on  the 
contrary,  there  is  no  trace  of  this  careful  art.  There 
Sebastian  proceeds  in  the  crudest  way  to  give  Nicusa, 
his  companion  in  misfortune,  the  fullest  information  as 
to  how  they  both  came  there,  though  the  one  who  is 
told  knows  just  as  much  about  it  as  the  one  who  is 
telling  him.  In  such  a  case  it  is  really  the  author  who 
is  usurping  a  part  for  the  benefit  of  the  audience,  not 
a  character  who  is  carrying  on  the  proper  business  of 
the  play. 

Of  this  most  common  of  sins  against  dramatic  pro- 
priety —  one  indeed  most  difficult  of  all  to  shun  — 
Shakespeare  is  very  seldom  guilty  in  even  a  venial 
form.  His  freedom  from  it  was  not  the  result  of  mere 
lucky  accident.  It  was  due  to  nothing  less  than  the 
skilful  evolution  of  a  plot  carefully  planned  and  thor- 
oughly thought  out.  It  was  this  which  led  him  to 
refrain  from  the  introduction  of  speeches  or  circum- 
stances that  offend  our  sense  of  the  congruous  or  fit- 
ting. He  had  not  simply  an  intuitive  perception  of  the 
minds  of  the  personages  he  set  out  to  portray,  but  a 
strength  and  sweep  of  imagination  which  enabled  him 
to   project  himself  into   any  situation  in  which   they 

392 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

might  be  placed,  to  share  their  feelings,  to  think  their 
thoughts,  and  to  say  their  words.  Hence  it  was  that 
his  contemporaries,  as  well  as  we,  recognized  the  per- 
fect propriety  of  everything  that  took  place  in  his 
dramas.  Hence  it  was  that  from  the  outset  he  came  to 
be  considered  the  representative  of  nature.  The  story 
he  adopts  for  his  theme  may  be  improbable;  it  may 
even  be  impossible.  That  it  should  be  one  which 
would  be  accepted  by  his  audience  was  all  that  he 
asked.  So  much  given,  he  made  no  further  demand 
upon  human  credulity.  Every  one  acts  as  it  is  right 
and  suitable  he  should  act  under  the  circumstances. 
He  recognized  that  there  is  a  limit  in  this  respect 
beyond  which  the  dramatist  ought  never  to  go.  We 
accept  the  improbability  of  the  plot.  We  give  our 
faith  to  the  fable,  however  extravagant,  because  the 
author  has  a  prescriptive  right  to  require  it;  because, 
furthermore,  fiction  cannot  assume  anything  stranger 
than  what  fact  actually  presents.  /  But  while  we  accept 
improbability  in  the  plot  as  a  whole,  what  we  do  not 
accept  is  improbability  in  the  details.  J  We  demand 
that  the  characters  shall  act  in  accordance  with  the 
motives  which  under  the  given  conditions  would  and 
should  dominate  their  conduct.  The  author  must  not 
seek  to  impose  upon  our  belief  a  course  of  proceeding 
which  experience  and  reason  both  teach  us  the  char- 
acter would  never  have  adopted  in  real  life. 

Of  course  there  is  always  danger  of  our  being  misled 
by  our  own  limited  knowledge  and  observation.  Be- 
cause a  particular  line  of  conduct  would  not  be  taken 
by  men,    as   we   see   them   about  us,    under   ordinary 

393 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

conditions,  it  by  no  means  follows  that  it  would  be 
unnatural  in  persons  who  are  operated  upon  by  agencies 
whose  scope  and  power  nothing  in  our  own  experience 
has  furnished  us  with  the  means  of  judging.  Much  of 
the  mistaken  criticism  which  has  been  applied  to  the 
acts  of  Shakespeare's  characters  is  due  either  to  imper- 
fect comprehension  of  the  personage  portrayed,  or  to 
imperfect  acquaintance  with  the  behavior  of  men  under 
exceptional  circumstances.  The  commentator  too  fre- 
quently considers  ordinary  course  of  conduct  as  universal, 
and  ordinary  feelings  as  ruling  ones  under  extraordinary 
conditions.  One  critic  accordingly  takes  exception  to 
the  naturalness  of  certain  proceedings  in  one  place; 
another  critic  to  something  else  in  another  place.  These 
are  usually  the  misapprehensions  of  those  who  draw 
their  inferences  from  their  own  limited  observation  of 
life,  and  not  from  Shakespeare's  limitless  knowledge. 

Of  the  scores  of  mistaken  judgments  of  this  sort  that 
might  be  cited,  let  us  take  one  from  *  Lear. '  Joseph 
Warton,  in  the  course  of  a  criticism  upon  that  tragedy, 
brought  as  an  objection  to  it  the  utter  improbability 
of  Gloucester's  imagining,  though  blind,  that  he  had 
thrown  himself  from  the  summit  of  Dover  cliff.1  The 
objection  has  been  repeated  in  the  present  century  by 
a  commentator  generally  so  clear-headed  as  Hunter.2 
It  was  regarded  at  the  time  by  Colman  as  a  just 
exception,  and  affected  his  action.  In  his  adaptation 
of  '  Lear '  he  threw  out  this  scene,  though  he  re- 
tained the   description  of   the   cliff,    which  had   really 


i  The  Adventurer,  No.  122,  Jan.  5,  1754. 
2  Illustrations  of  Shakespeare,  vol.  ii.  p.  273. 
394 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

no  business  in  the  play,  if  Gloucester  was  not  supposed 
to  leap  from  it.  Here  it  is,  as  usual,  that  Shakespeare 
exhibits  his  superiority  to  his  critics,  who  did  not  study 
the  personages  he  portrayed  with  the  insight  he  applied 
to  their  conception.  Gloucester's  character  and  acts 
are  consistent  throughout.  He  is  an  easy  victim  to 
superstition.  His  own  son  speaks  of  him  as  credulous 
by  nature.  He  expresses  faith  in  the  effects  of  plane- 
tary influence  at  which  the  evil-minded  but  far  abler 
Edmund  scoffs.  There  is  nothing  which  a  man  of  this 
temperament  cannot  be  made  to  believe  against  the 
evidence  of  his  senses,  even  under  ordinary  conditions. 
But  the  conditions  here  are  not  ordinary.  Gloucester 
has  been  passing  through  terrible  experiences,  which 
have  already  unsettled  the  powers  both  of  mind  and 
body.  All  that  has  happened  tends  to  overthrow  the 
natural  conclusions  of  the  judgment.  That  he  could 
be  persuaded  that  he  had  not  only  fallen,  but  that  he 
had  been  tempted  by  a  fiend  to  throw  himself  headlong 
from  the  summit  of  the  cliff  is  exactly  in  line  with  his 
whole  previous  conduct.  Shakespeare  saw  it  and  acted 
upon  it.  Warton,  not  having  the  ability  to  see  it,  cen- 
sured him  for  a  course  he  failed  to  comprehend. 

This  concludes  all  that  need  be  said  of  Shakespeare's 
art,  so  far  as  the  criticisms  of  it  are  concerned  which 
have  been  based  upon  purely  intellectual  considera- 
tions. But  there  remains  another  point  about  which 
controversy  gathered  constantly  during  the  century 
and  more  that  followed  the  Restoration.  Even  to  this 
day  we  find  it  occasionally  renewed.  It  is  the  attack 
which  has  been  made  upon  his  course  from  the  side 

395 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

of  morality.  Its  character  must  not  be  misappre- 
hended. It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  presence  in 
his  pages  of  occasional  coarseness  and  vulgarity.  It  is 
his  frequent  violation  of  what  is  termed  poetic  justice 
which  here  comes  under  review.  It  is  his  practice  of 
leaving  the  guilty  unpunished  and  the  innocent  unre- 
warded that  has  provoked  some  of  the  severest  criticism 
to  which  he  has  been  subjected  as  a  moral  teacher. 
This  is  wholly  independent  of  the  question  whether 
the  play  itself  is  of  a  virtuous  or  vicious  tendency.  It 
concerns  itself  entirely  with  the  fate  which  in  the 
catastrophe  is  assigned  to  the  various  personages  of  the 
drama.  But  before  entering  upon  the  discussion  of 
the  question  itself,  it  is  desirable  to  prepare  the  way 
for  it  by  a  consideration  of  both  the  specific  and  the 
general  attitude  which  Shakespeare  exhibits  towards 
morality. 

It  is  to  be  said  at  the  outset  that  as  Shakespeare's 
art  was  more  free  from  offences  against  dramatic  pro- 
priety than  that  of  his  contemporaries  or  of  his  suc- 
cessors, so  it  is  of  a  distinctly  higher  moral  tone.  The 
continued  increase  of  his  fame  is  in  no  small  measure 
due  to  this  fact.  The  unchanging  deference  which  is 
paid  to  the  pure  in  literature  is  a  tribute  of  itself  to 
the  permanent  hold  which  high  things  have  over  the 
human  heart.  Shakespeare  is  pre-eminently  a  moral 
poet.  This  is  stated  with  the  full  consciousness  that 
there  are  passages  in  his  writings  —  and  by  no  means 
so  infrequent  as  some  think  —  which  might  fairly  seem 
to  convey  an  exactly  opposite  impression.  I  am  not 
referring  to  the  familiar  fact  of  terms  in  lapse  of  time 

396 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

becoming  coarse  by  association,  though  they  have  no 
essential  coarseness  in  themselves;  nor  again  to  the  use 
of  direct  and  plain  expressions  where  modern  nicety 
demands  euphemistic  ones.  Both  these  occur;  but 
they  are  mere  accidents  of  convention:  in  the  domain 
of  morals  they  deserve  no  attention.  The  fault  is  of 
an  altogether  different  nature.  It  is  the  occurrence  in 
his  writings  of  gross  and  licentious  allusions,  which 
would  be  reckoned  as  such,  no  matter  in  what  age  they 
appeared,  or  in  what  disguise  of  language  they  were 
clothed. 

In  this  he  acted  no  differently  from  his  fellow- 
dramatists.  Though  Shakespeare  was  a  writer  for  all 
time,  as  was  long  ago  said  by  the  greatest  of  his  rivals, 
he  was  likewise,  in  some  particulars,  the  child  of  his  age. 
He  reflected  occasionally  the  worst  characteristics  of 
his  period,  as  more  often  he  embodied  the  deepest  con- 
victions and  loftiest  aspirations  of  the  race.  He  was 
influenced  by  the  same  moral  or  immoral  forces  which 
were  operating  upon  all  his  contemporaries.  In  any 
consideration  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  it  will  never  do 
to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  it  was  then  the  represen- 
tative national  literature.  The  writers  for  the  stage 
were  under  the  influence  of  every  class  in  the  com- 
munity, from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  It  would  be  a 
gross  error  to  assume,  as  was  constantly  assumed  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  that  the  latter  made  up  the  main  or 
even  a  ver}'  important  element  of  the  audience.  That 
matchless  poetry  which  later  times  have  often  imitated 
but  never  equalled;  those  lofty  passages  which  linger 
in  the  memory,   though   the  truths   they  convey  may 

397 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

have  no  influence  upon  the  life,  —  these  were  never 
written  for  unappreciative  ears ;  they  were  never  deliv- 
ered to  men  who  did  not  acknowledge  and  act  upon 
the  highest  motives.  But  while  in  many  respects  the 
theatre  represented  what  was  noblest  and  purest  in  the 
national  life  and  character,  it  certainly  catered  at  times 
to  what  was  lowest.  For  the  high  it  was  high;  for 
the  pure  it  was  pure;  for  the  vulgar  it  was  vulgar. 
From  this  point  of  view  it  did  not  differ  essentially 
from  the  modern  newspaper,  which  puts  forward  the 
claim,  sometimes  in  express  words,  more  frequently  in 
its  practice,  that  within  certain  limits  it  must  satisfy 
ail  classes  in  the  community.  It  is  further  to  he  borne 
in  mind  that  while  the  Elizabethan  age  was  one  of 
greatness  in  many  respects,  it  was  also  an  age  of  plain- 
spokenness  which  too  often  assumed  the  nature  of 
coarseness.  Delicacy  in  many  modern  senses  of  the 
word  seems  to  have  been  a  thing  almost  unknown; 
while  the  squeamishness  which  with  us  occasionally 
goes  under  that  garb  was  something  that  was  not  even 
dreamed  of  then. 

The  most  ardent  admirer  of  Shakespeare  must  con- 
cede that  he  was  not  wholly  free  from  that  tendency 
to  pander  at  times  to  man's  baser  nature,  which  the 
Puritans  regarded  as  the  inherent  vice  of  all  theatrical 
representation.  In  him,  as  in  other  playwrights  of  his 
period,  there  is  a  certain  proportion  of  licentious  utter- 
ance, introduced  apparently  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
gratify  the  taste  of  the  vilest  of  the  populace.  Atten- 
tion has  been  called  to  the  fact  that  he  sometimes  falls 
below,  the  highest  standard  of  art  in  consequence  of  his 

398 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

addiction  to  verbal  quibbles.  It  is  in  connection 
with  these  that  the  matter  objectionable  on  the  score 
of  impurity  is  very  generally  found.  It  is  perhaps  in 
accordance  with  the  everlasting  proprieties  that  the 
passages  which  are  most  offensive  morally  should  be 
also  the  most  execrable  intellectually.  Happily  many 
of  the  vilest  of  these  plays  upon  words  escape,  as  a 
general  rule,  the  notice  of  the  ordinary  reader.  This 
is  partly  because  of  the  inexpressible  wretchedness  of 
the  verbal  quibbles  in  which  their  meaning  is  wrapped 
up,  and  partly  for  the  reason  that  changes  which  have 
taken  place  in  the  signification  of  words  hide  now  the 
obscenity  which  was  at  the  time  plainly  apparent. 
Most  of  us  in  reading  them  pass  over  them  without  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  the  nature  of  the  ground  upon 
which  we  are  treading.  Even  great  commentators  have 
revealed  both  their  innocence  and  their  ignorance  in 
laborious  efforts  they  have  put  forth  to  explain  the 
passages  in  which  they  are  found.  The  indecency 
which  lurks  in  them  is  couched  in  allusions  which  time 
has  made  so  impenetrably  obscure  that  the  words  give 
as  little  shock  to  the  sense  as  if  they  were  uttered  in 
an  unknown  tongue. 

Still  this  stain  upon  Shakespeare's  writings  exists, 
even  though  it  does  not  go  very  deep.  All  students  of 
the  dramatist  will  concede  it.  But  while  this  can  lie 
granted,  it  is  easy  to  draw  utterly  mistaken  conclusions 
from  the  admission.  The  passages  which  are  objection- 
able  on  the  score  of  their  licentiousness  are,  in  the  first 
place,  almost  invariably  of  a  low  intellectual  grade. 
There  is  still  another  gratifying  tribute  which  morality 

399 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

is  enabled  to  pay  to  the  saving  grace  of  stupidity. 
These  passages  have  rarely  any  close  connection  with 
the  proper  business  of  the  play.  They  are  not  essential 
to  carrying  forward  its  action.  Hence  they  can  usually 
be  dropped  in  representation  without  attracting  the 
slightest  attention  whatever.  Their  absence  is  not  felt 
as  an  injury  either  to  the  development  of  the  plot  or 
to  its  comprehension.  There  is  no  dramatist  who  lends 
himself  more  easily  than  Shakespeare  to  expurgation, 
so  far  as  expurgation  is  required,  and  who  loses  so  little 
by  it.  In  many  of  the  plays  of  Fletcher,  for  instance, 
the  indelicac}'  is  ingrained  into  the  very  texture  of  the 
plot.  It  cannot  be  removed  without  utterly  destroying 
the  whole  piece.  This  is  far  more  visibly  the  fact  in 
the  comedy  of  the  Restoration,  often  blazing  with  wit, 
brilliant  with  repartee,  and  alive  with  startling  situa- 
tions, but  so  shamelessly  vicious  in  its  whole  nature 
that  even  out  of  detached  scenes  the  modern  stage  can 
scarcely  put  together  a  production  that  would  be  toler- 
ated by  a  modern  audience.  In  Shakespeare,  on  the 
other  hand,  these  offensive  passages  do  not  touch  the 
inner  life  of  the  story.  They  are  almost  invariably 
excrescences  upon  the  surface  of  the  piece.  The  re- 
moval of  them  detracts  nothing  from  its  intellectual 
completeness,  while  it  contributes  to  its  moral  perfection. 
In  Shakespeare,  accordingly,  there  are  coarse  words 
which  can  be  replaced  by  others  equally  expressive  but 
not  offensive.  There  are  impure  allusions  which  can 
be  lopped  away  without  injuring  the  context;  and  once 
gone  they  are  never  missed.  These  are  the  limits  of 
his   trespass.     Against  them   can  be  placed,  first,  one 

400 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

merit  in  particular  which  outweighs  in  importance  all 
such  lapses.  There  are  no  indelicate  situations.  Fur- 
thermore, there  is  a  peculiar  refinement  in  his  treatment 
of  everything  which  concerns  the  relation  of  the  sexes. 
In  particular,  the  female  characters  drawn  by  him  are 
of  the  loftiest  type  known  to  literature.  In  these  re- 
spects he  stands  in  sharpest  contrast  intellectually  with 
all  his  contemporaries,  and  morally  stands  on  an  incon- 
ceivably higher  plane  than  most  of  them.  Still  his 
greatness  as  a  moral  teacher  does  not  consist  in  his 
conformity  to  conventions  which,  as  a  general  rule, 
concern  delicacy  much  more  than  virtue.  It  is  when 
he  comes  to  the  consideration  of  questions  affecting 
human  life  and  conduct  that  we  recognize  his  superior- 
ity as  a  guide.  We  feel  then  how  fully  he  has  pene- 
trated into  the  most  secret  recesses  of  the  heart,  how 
intimate  is  his  acquaintance  with  both  the  feelings  and 
motives  that  influence  us  in  what  we  do  or  fail  to  do, 
how  complete  is  his  knowledge  of  the  real  rewards  and 
punishments  which  wait  on  human  action,  not  on  the 
fanciful  ones  which  we  in  our  shortsightedness  would 
think  proper  to  have  bestowed.  Once  contemplating 
this  side  of  his  intellectual  activity,  those  concessions 
to  man's  lower  nature,  which  stain  at  intervals  his  writ- 
ings, disappear  alike  from  view  and  thought  in  the 
blaze  of  light  with  which  he  reveals  to  us  the  operation 
of  the  moral  laws  which  regulate  the  government  of  the 
universe.  One  inevitable  result  of  this  deeper  insight 
was  his  rejection  of  what  is  called  poetical  justice.  This 
was  something  the  men  of  the  eighteenth  century  de- 
lighted to  honor,  though  they  honored  it  in  a  way  not 
26  401 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

much  to  its  credit.  With  them  it  had  reference  mainly 
to  matters  purely  external.  Virtue  furthermore  was 
rewarded,  vice  was  punished,  not  so  as  to  accord  with 
what  we  know  to  be  true  in  life,  but  what  we  should 
like  to  have  true.  To  any  such  arbitrary  and  unreal 
disposition  of  events  Shakespeare's  art  at  once  rose 
superior. 

So  far  as  I  know,  Rymer  was  the  one  who  introduced 
into  English  criticism  the  doctrine  of  poetic  justice, 
though  playwrights  had  previously  not  neglected  to 
conform  to  it  in  practice.  Certainly  he  was  the  first  to 
give  it  vogue.  It  was  for  their  neglect  of  it  that  he 
found  fault  with  the  dramatists  of  the  previous  age. 
In  his  criticism  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  '  Rollo  '  he 
proclaimed  the  superiority  of  poetical  to  historical  jus- 
tice. The  former  was  to  be  observed,  no  matter  how 
great  had  been  the  failure  of  the  latter.  Its  satisfac- 
tion must  be  made  complete  before  the  malefactor  went 
off  the  stage,  and  as  he  expressed  it,  "  nothing  left  to 
God  Almighty  and  another  world."1  The  spectators 
must  not  trust  the  poet  for  a  hell  behind  the  scenes;  its 
fire  must  roar  in  the  faces  of  the  criminals  set  before 
them,  its  fiends  and  furies  must  torture  their  con- 
sciences. In  his  preface  to  '  Don  Sebastian '  Dryden 
defended  his  course  in  preserving  the  hero  from  death  by 
appealing  to  this  principle.  An  involuntary  sin,  of  which 
alone  this  personage  had  been  guilty,  did  not  deserve  so 
severe  a  penalty:  "for,"  he  continued,  "the  learned  Mr. 
Rymer  has  well  observed,  that  in  all  punishments  we  are 
to  regulate  ourselves  by  poetical  justice."     Playwrights 

1  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  p.  26. 
402 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

indeed  came  to  be  very  solicitous  about  conforming  to 
this  rule.  In  the  dedicatory  epistle  prefixed  to  his 
*  Ambitious  Stepmother'  Rowe  tells  us  that  "that 
which  they  call  the  poetical  justice  is,  I  think,  strictly 
observed."  In  truth,  the  doctrine  once  promulgated 
seems  to  have  met  with  pretty  general  acceptance. 

It  was  Dennis,  however,  who  became  its  most  earnest 
advocate.  He,  unlike  Rymer,  was  a  sincere  admirer 
of  Shakespeare,  frequent  as  were  his  lamentations 
over  the  dramatist's  ignorance  of  the  poetic  art.  In 
nothing  had  the  lack  of  this  knowledge  been  attended 
with  worse  consequences  than  in  his  neglect  to  comply 
with  the  requirements  of  poetical  justice.  He  pointed 
out  in  his  '  Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Writings  of  Shake- 
speare '  how  entirely  that  author  had  failed  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  rewards  and  punishments  in  the  tragedy 
of  '  Coriolanus.'  These  errors  he  mentioned  in  detail. 
Coriolanus  meets  a  deserved  death,  to  be  sure,  for  hav- 
ing been  disloyal  to  his  country.  But  his  murderer 
Aufidius  not  only  survives  but  survives  unpunished. 
Though  historic  vengeance  had  never  actually  over- 
taken him,  he  should  have  been  given  up  to  poetic. 
Furthermore,  this  should  have  been  the  fate  also  of 
the  two  tribunes,  Sicinius  and  Brutus,  who  had  been 
instrumental  by  their  mean  and  malicious  artifices  in 
bringing  about  the  expulsion  of  the  hero.  Dennis  did 
not  content  himself  with  criticism.  In  his  altered  ver- 
sion of  the  play  he  set  out  to  remedy  the  oversight  or 
neglect  of  the  original  author.  This,  after  having  been 
kept  by  him  for  nearly  the  Horatian  period  of  nine  years, 
was  produced  at  Drury  Lane  in  1719.     It  ended  with  a 

403 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

duel  between  Coriolarms  and  Aufidius,  in  which  the 
former  kills  the  latter,  but  is  in  turn  killed  by  the 
Volscians.  Nor  were  the  tribunes  allowed  to  escape 
scot-free.  The  indignant  citizens  in  the  course  of  the 
play  drive  them  towards  the  Tarpeian  rock  with  the 
intent  to  hurl  them  from  its  summit.  But  Dennis 
relented  before  proceeding  to  this  extremity ;  at  least  he 
left  us  in  ignorance  of  their  fate.  However,  he  thus 
secured  poetic  justice  all  round;  but  he  failed  to  secure 
favor  for  the  altered  play.  To  his  great  indignation  it 
ran  but  three  nights. 

Dennis's  criticism  of  this  defect  in  Shakespeare  was 
by  no  means  limited  to  this  particular  production.  He 
pointed  out  that  the  dramatist  had  been  wanting  in  the 
exact  distribution  of  poetical  justice,  not  only  in  his 
'  Coriolanus, '  but  in  most  of  his  best  tragedies.  In 
them  the  guilty  and  the  innocent  perish  indiscriminately. 
As  a  consequence  there  could  be  in  them,  in  his  opin- 
ion, no  instruction  or  very  weak  instruction.  "Such 
promiscuous  events,"  he  wrote,  "call  the  government  of 
providence  into  question,  and  by  skeptics  and  libertines 
are  resolved  into  chance."  In  these  words  lay  the 
secret  of  this  conventional  criticism.  That  uneasy 
anxiety  which  besets  men,  even  the  best  of  them,  to 
improve  upon  the  methods  of  the  Lord  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  universe  was  at  the  foundation  of  this 
demand  for  poetical  justice.  The  effort  to  do  for  provi- 
dence on  the  stage  what  providence  had  neglected  to 
do  for  itself  in  real  life  can  be  traced  for  more  than  a 
century,  not  only  in  original  pieces,  but  in  the  modifi- 
cations to  which  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  were  sub- 

404 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

jected  on  that  account.  As  early  as  1679  Dryden,  in 
the  preface  to  his  alteration  of  '  Troilus  and  Cressida,' 
took  credit  to  himself  for  having  remedied  some  cry- 
ing faults  of  this  description.  "Cressida  is  false,"  he 
wrote,  "and  is  not  punished."  As  the  heroine  of  a 
tragedy  ought  not  to  be  wicked,  according  to  the 
critical  theories  then  generally  received,  he  elevated  her 
character,  and  made  her,  though  suspected,  really  faith- 
ful. She  stabs  herself  in  order  to  establish  her  inno- 
cence. Poetical  justice  is  inflicted  by  him  on  the  parties 
not  merely  guilty  of  acting,  but  even  of  thinking  im- 
properly. Diomede  is  killed  in  the  play  by  Troilus  for 
attempting  the  honor  of  Cressida,  and  for  doubting  it 
Troilus  in  turn  is  killed  by  Achilles. 

So  far  as  Shakespeare  was  directly  concerned,  how- 
ever, the  controversy  on  the  subject  concentrated  itself 
mainly  upon  the  treatment  of  the  tragedy  of  '  Lear.' 
There  were  several  violations  of  poetic  justice  com- 
mitted by  him  in  his  other  works.  But  in  so  doing  he 
had  followed  his  authorities,  whether  accredited  his- 
tory, or  transmitted  legend,  or  popular  tale.  His  con- 
duct could  be  explained  either  by  his  ignorance  of  the 
doctrine,  or  by  his  desire  not  to  depart  from  the  inci- 
dents of  a  story  well  known  to  his  audience.  But  in 
the  case  of  '  Lear '  no  such  explanation  was  possible. 
Not  only  was  poetic  justice  violated,  but  it  was  wan- 
tonly violated.  The  ending  had  been  changed  from  a 
happy  to  an  unhappy  one ;  and  changed,  too,  at  a  period 
when  the  monarch  himself  was  still  regarded  by  many, 
perhaps  by  most,  as  a  genuine  historical  personage. 
The  story  had  been  first  told  in  the  twelfth  century 

405 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

by  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth.  In  his  account  Lear  is 
restored  to  his  sovereignty  by  the  aid  of  Cordelia  and 
her  husband,  the  king  of  France.  After  his  death  she 
herself  ascends  the  throne.  This  form  of  the  legend 
—  which  for  centuries  was  generally  accepted  as  true 
history  —  is  the  only  one  known  to  the  later  chroniclers 
and  poets  from  whom  Shakespeare  derived  his  mate- 
rials. It  is  likewise  the  form  followed  in  the  old  play 
of  '  King  Leir,'  which  had  preceded  his  tragedy.  Here 
was  an  instance  where  historic  and  poetic  justice  had 
exactly  accorded.  Of  this  agreement  Shakespeare  was 
so  far  from  taking  advantage  that  he  may  be  said  to 
have  spurned  it.  There  is  no  question  that  he  delib- 
erately altered  the  catastrophe.  Tate  in  his  version 
went  back  to  a  certain  extent  to  the  original  narrative, 
not  because  he  knew  anything  about  it,  but  because  he 
preferred  a  happy  ending. 

This  alteration  of  Shakespeare's  play,  however  well 
received  by  the  theatrical  public,  called  forth  the  con- 
demnation of  Addison.  In  one  of  his  essays  in  the 
'  Spectator  '  he  censured  the  whole  idea  of  poetical  jus- 
tice. He  spoke  of  it  most  contemptuously  as  nothing 
but  a  ridiculous  doctrine  of  modern  criticism.  Where 
it  came  from  he  could  not  tell ;  but  he  was  sure  it  had 
no  foundation  in  nature,  or  in  reason,  or  in  the  practice 
of  the  ancients.  Besides  being  false  in  theory,  it  was 
a  failure  in  practice.  The  observance  of  the  doctrine 
did  not  contribute  to  the  favorable  reception  of  a  play. 
On  the  contrary,  those  in  which  the  favorites  of  the 
audience  sink  under  their  calamities  were  in  general 
more  successful  than  those  in  which  they  emerge  from 

406 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

them  triumphant.  '"King  Lear,'"  he  continued,  "is 
an  admirable  tragedy  of  the  same  kind,  as  Shakespeare 
wrote  it;  but  as  it  is  reformed,  according  to  the  chimer- 
ical notion  of  poetical  justice,  in  my  humble  opinion  it 
has  lost  half  its  beauty."  l 

Dennis  by  this  time  had  come  to  be  in  a  state  of 
wrath  with  everything  in  general,  and  with  everybody 
in  particular  who  enjoyed  more  of  the  favor  of  the 
public  than  himself.  The  essay  of  Addison  provoked 
at  once  an  explosion.  It  ran  counter  to  the  doctrine 
he  loved  and  taught  and  practised.  He  rebuked  its 
author  not  only  for  his  opinion,  but  for  the  insolent, 
dogmatic,  and  dictatorial  way  in  which  he  had  ex- 
pressed it.  To  the  '  Spectator  '  he  addressed  a  number 
of  letters  which  were  appended  to  his  b  Essay  on  the 
Genius  and  Writings  of  Shakespeare.'  In  the  first  of 
them  he  informed  Addison  that  the  person  who  origi- 
nated this  ridiculous  doctrine  of  modern  criticism  was 
a  modern  who  lived  about  two  thousand  years  ago.  It 
was  no  other  than  Aristotle  himself.  Poor  Aristotle 
has  had  in  his  way  a  fortune  as  hard  as  Shakespeare's. 
He  has  been  compelled  to  bear  the  repute  of  all  the 
notions,  whether  sensible  or  silly,  that  men  read  into 
his  writings  or  choose  to  infer  from  them.  From  Aris- 
totle Dennis  went  on  to  say  that  the  doctrine  had 
been  introduced  into  English  by  that  noted  authority, 
Mr.  Rymer,  ''who,  notwithstanding  the  rage  of  all  the 
poetasters  of  the  times,  whom  he  has  exasperated  by 
opening  the  eyes  of  the  blind  that  they  may  see  their 
errors,  will  alwaj-s  puss  with  impartial  posterity  for  a 

1  No.  40,  April  16,  1711. 
407 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

most  learned,  a  most  judicious  and  a  most  useful  critic."  * 
It  is  fair  to  Dennis  to  add  that  he  so  broadened  the 
conception  of  poetic  justice  that  a  large  number  of  the 
instances  in  which  Shakespeare  had  been  charged  with 
its  violation  could  have  been  included  under  his  defini- 
tion of  the  term. 

To  this  outburst  Addison,  as  usual,  made  no  reply. 
It  was  one  of  his  most  irritating  characteristics.  He 
amused  himself,  indeed,  in  an  essay,  printed  about  a 
week  later  than  his  previous  one,  by  citing  a  couple  of 
lines  which  he  called  humorous,  from  a  translation  of 
Boileau  made  by  Dennis.2  The  reference  suggested 
the  impression  that  he  considered  the  critic  a  dunce; 
but  it  could  as  legitimately  be  construed  into  a  compli- 
ment. Dennis  was  puzzled  by  it ;  and  though  he  could 
not  refrain  from  indulging  in  further  comment,  it  is 
clear  he  did  not  know  how  to  take  what  was  said. 
Towards  the  close  of  the  following  year,  when  the 
*  Spectator  '  was  nearing  its  end,  Addison  returned  to 
the  subject.3  He  defended  his  former  position,  though 
without  mentioning  his  critic.  Still,  in  spite  of  the 
influence  he  wielded,  men  continued  to  respect  and 
writers  to  heed  the  doctrine.  Long  before  this  partic- 
ular controversy  Gildon  in  his  preface  to  his  '  Phaethon, 
or  the  Fatal  Divorce,'  a  tragedy  brought  out  in  1698, 
had  proclaimed  it  the  duty  of  the  poet  to  reward  the 
innocent  and  punish  the  guilty,  and  by  that  means  to 
establish  a  just  notion  of  providence  in  its  most  impor- 
tant action,  the  government  of  mankind.    Twenty  years 

i  Essay,  pp.  38-48.  2  Spectator,  No.  47,  April  24,  1711. 

3  Ibid.  No.  548,  Nov.  28,  1712. 

408 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

later  he  patronizingly  pointed  out  to  Addison  the  falsity 
of  the  criticism  which  had  been  made  by  him  upon  this 
doctrine  in  the  '  Spectator,'  and  quoted  almost  in  full 
Dennis's  confutation,  as  he  called  it,  of  the  error  which 
the  essayist  had  fallen  into  in  its  denial. 

In  the  case  of  '  Lear,'  furthermore,  men  clung  to  the 
altered  catastrophe.  This  course  on  their  part  was,  to 
be  sure,  not  always,  or  perhaps  mainly,  due  to  their 
interest  in  this  particular  doctrine.  "  We  still  prefer  the 
happy  ending,"  said  a  reviewer  towards  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century;  "reason  opposes  it;  while  the  tor- 
tured feelings  at  once  decide  the  contest."1  Still  the 
idea  of  poetic  justice  involved  in  the  alteration  contrib- 
uted somewhat  to  the  favor  with  which  it  was  received, 
and  was  sometimes  made  prominent  in  the  comments 
upon  the  play.  Cooke,  for  instance, —  usually  designated 
as  Hesiod  Cooke, —  devoted  a  number  of  pages  to  the 
celebration  of  the  moral  teachings  of  '  Lear,'  as  exhibited 
in  Tate's  version.2  It  showed,  he  observed,  that  the 
all-wise  disposer  of  things  had  from  the  beginning 
annexed  rewards  to  virtue  and  punishment  to  vice. 
Such  a  criticism,  if  it  proved  nothing  else,  certainly 
made  clear  that  the  all-wise  disposer  of  things  had  not 
thought  it  worth  while  to  impart  to  the  critic  ordinary 
observation  of  the  facts  of  life.  But  throughout  the 
whole  century  discussion  of  poetical  justice  went  on 
more  or  less  in  connection  with  this  play.  It  is  evident 
from  the  references  in  the  periodical  literature  of  the 

1  Critical  "Review,  vol.  lviii,  p.  58  (1784). 

2  Considerations  on  the  Stage,  chap,  ii.,  appended  to  '  Triumphs  of 
Love  and  Honour,'  1731. 

409 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

time  that  Addison's  words  influenced  many  who  would 
naturally  have  been  carried  by  the  current  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.1  As  one  illustration  out  of  several  that 
could  be  cited,  Richardson,  in  defending  the  conclusion 
of  'Clarissa,'  in  the  postscript  to  that  novel,  quoted  in 
his  favor  the  view  of  poetic  justice  taken  by  the  essayist, 
and  save  it  his  full  assent. 

With  the  opinions  expressed  by  Addison  in  the '  Spec- 
tator, '  a  man,  much  more  conspicuous  than  any  of  the 
petty  critics  mentioned,  came  forward  to  proclaim  his 
disagreement.  This  was  Dr.  Johnson,  the  greatest 
moralist  among  the  commentators  of  Shakespeare.  The 
preface  to  his  edition  contained  a  general  indictment  of 
the  course  pursued  by  the  dramatist  in  his  distribution 
of  rewards  and  punishments,  and  in  his  neglect  of  poet- 
ical justice.  On  this  point,  indeed,  the  censure  culmi- 
nated. Shakespeare,  according  to  Johnson,  sacrifices 
virtue  to  convenience,  and  is  so  much  more  solicitous  to 
please  than  to  instruct,  that  he  seems  to  write  without 
any  moral  purpose.  His  precepts  and  axioms  drop  from 
him  casually.  He  carries  his  personages  indifferently 
through  right  and  wrong1,  dismisses  them  without  care, 
and  leaves  their  example  to  operate  by  chance,  without 
having  the  lesson  of  the  conduct  they  have  displayed 
enforced  upon  the  attention.  Furthermore,  he  makes 
no  just  distinction  of  good  and  evil,  nor  is  he  always 
careful  to  show  a  disapprobation  of  the  vicious  on  the 
part  of  the  virtuous.  Worse  than  all,  he  is  wanting  in 
what  is  termed  poetic  justice,  according  to  which  the 
evil  man  gets  his  deserts  and  the  righteous  is  rewarded. 

1  For  example, '  Gentleman's  Magazine, '  1752,  p.  253. 

410 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

This  had  been  illustrated  particularly  in  the  tragedy  ot 
'  Lear. '  Johnson  defended  the  alteration  which  had 
been  made  in  the  catastrophe  of  this  play,  and  in  so 
doing  made  use  of  an  argument  which,  coming  from 
another,  he  would  have  spurned  contemptuously.  "  The 
public  has  decided, "  he  said  triumphantly.  "'Cordelia 
from  the  time  of  Tate  has  always  retired  with  victory 
and  felicity.  And  if  my  sensations  could  add  anything 
to  the  general  suffrage,  I  might  relate,  I  was  many 
years  ago  so  shocked  by  Cordelia's  death,  that  I  know 
not  whether  I  ever  endured  to  read  again  the  last 
scenes  of  the  play  till  I  undertook  to  revise  them  as 
editor." 

It  seems  hard  to  believe  that  a  man  of  Johnson's 
intellectual  powers  should  have  thought  it  desirable 
that  Shakespeare  should  have  "improved  "  —  to  use  the 
technical  language  of  homiletics  —  every  occasion  that 
presented  itself  for  enforcing  ethical  instruction.  Yet 
the  words  he  employs  both  here  and  elsewhere  seem 
naturally  to  bear  this  interpretation.  In  his  criticism 
upon  '  As  You  Like  It '  he  remarks  that  in  consequence 
of  hastening  to  the  end  the  great  dramatist  had  kw  sup- 
pressed the  dialogue  between  the  usurper  and  the 
hermit,  and  lost  an  opportunity  of  exhibiting  a  moral 
lesson  in  which  he  might  have  found  matter  worthy  of 
his  highest  powers."  This  is  about  on  a  par  with  the 
fault  found  by  Dennis  with  '  Coriolanus,'  that  the  hero 
of  the  piece  takes  leave  of  his  wife  and  daughters  out 
of  the  sight  of  the  audience.  Hence  a  great  occasion 
to  move  had  been  neglected.  In  his  alteration  Dennis 
seized  upon  this  occasion;  but  the  audience  was  not 

411 


-^ 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

moved.  So  the  course  of  conduct  pointed  out  by  John- 
son as  desirable  would  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases 
have  been  eminently  calculated  to  defeat  the  very  end 
at  which  he  aimed.  Shakespeare  was  unquestionably 
able  to  find  sermons  in  stones;  but  he  did  not  feel 
called  upon  to  put  a  sermon  into  a  stone  if  it  was  not 
there  already.  The  dialogue  between  the  usurper  and 
the  hermit  might  have  delighted  the  reader;  but  it 
would  have  diverted  the  attention  of  both  reader  and 
hearer  from  the  main  business  of  the  play,  and  the 
interests  of  morality  would  not  have  been  enhanced  by 
disloyalty  to  art. 

tv.0  fr-nf-h  is  tin**-  sv^lipsppivre's  success  as  a  moralist 
is  due  to  the  fact  that  his  moral  is  not  made  obtrusive. 
It  is  the  comment  that  rises  naturally  out  of  the  situa- 
tion.     It  makes  all  the  more  impression  upon  the  mind 

because  we   both    rpr.ncmiy.p  and    fpp1    ^g    a^gnlntft  appr-n-t 

priateness.  It  is  the  very  reflection  which  in  the  sarne^ 
situation  would  or  should  have  occurred  to  ourselves. 
though  expressed  with  a  felicity  and  force  to  which  we 
can  lay  no  claim.  His  writings  are  crowded  with 
observations  which  bear  directly  upon  the  conduct  of^ 
life.  They  can  only  be  said  to  drop  from  him  casually 
in  the  sense  that  they  are  never  introduced  save  when 
they  can  be  made  most  effective  by  the  example  to 
whicji_thejjiurnish  the  comment.  In  the  opening  scene 
of  yKing  Lear '  jjGrloucester  is  shown  not  only  insensible 
to  his  early  sin,  but  jesting  about  it,  in  the  very  pres- 
ence of  the  illegitimate  Edmund,  who  could  not  but 
resent  in  his  heart  the  allusions  to  the  position  in  life 
in  which  he  had  been  placed  by  his  father's  offence. 

412 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

Through  the  machinations  of  this  son  he  loses  at  once 
home  and  sight.  Yet  when  confronted  with  the  calam- 
ities which  have  overtaken  him,  like  most  men  of  blunted 
moral  sense,  he  has  no  conception  that  they  have  come 
as  consequences  of  his  own  acts.  What  has  happened 
is  in  his  view  nothing  but   the  result  of   inscrutable 

chance. 

"  As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  gods; 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport." 

This  is  the  lesson  he  draws  from  his  misfortunes.  It 
is  the  clearer  mind  and  loftier  nature  of  the  son  he  has 
discarded  which  recognizes  the  justice  of  providence. 
What  more  impressive  and  at  the  same  time  more  nat- 
ural and  apposite  tribute  can  be  paid  to  the  inflexible 
laws  which  pervade  the  moral  government  of  the  uni- 
verse than  the  words  of  Edgar  as  he  contemplates  the 
result,  — 

"  The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  scourge  us." 

It  is  not,  however,  in  the  single  reflections,  scattered 
in  profusion  through  his  writings,  and  bearing  directly 
upon  the  ethical  quality  of  almost  every  detail  of  life 
and  conduct,  —  so  numerous  indeed  that,  according  to 
Johnson  himself,  a  system  of  social  duty  could  be  gath- 
ered from  his  sayings,  —  it  is  not  in  these  that  Shake- 
speare's surpassing  greatness  as  a  moralist  consists. 
That  rests  upon  the  fact  that  he  steadily  unfolds  before 
our  eyes  the  inevitable  results  of  sin,  of  crime,  of  errors 
of  all  kinds,  even  of  mere  errors  of  judgment;  and 
upon  the  further  fact  that  in  so  doing  he  pays  no  heed 
to  that  so-called  poetic  justice  which  pictures  as  true 

413 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

a  condition  of  things  that  experience  and  observation 
unite  in  showing  us  to  be  false.  He  knew  what  his 
critic  did  not,  that  to  observe  poetic  justice  was  to 
please  and  not  to  instruct.  Dr.  Johnson  wished  '  Lear ' 
to  have  a  happy  ending.  He  wished  to  see  the  virtue 
of  Cordelia  rewarded  as  well  as  the  wickedness  of  her 
sisters  punished.  But  in  no  such  scrupulously  exact 
manner  operate  the  moral  laws  which  control  the  re- 
sults of  human  action.  It  is  not  alone  upon  the  head 
of  the  man  who  has  gone  astray  from  the  path  of  right 
that  the  vengeance  of  heaven  descends.  Upon  the 
innocent,  who  are  bound  to  him  by  ties  of  nature  or 
affection,  too  often  falls  its  heaviest  curse.  It  is  a 
spectacle  our  eyes  witness  daily.  Not  merely  crimes 
but  venial  errors  too  often  carry  within  them  the  seeds 
of  a  punishment  which  affects  not  only  the  individual 
transgressor,  but  all  whom  the  accident  of  circumstance 
has  involved  in  his  fortunes  or  his  fate. 

We  can  go  even  farther.  Mistakes  of  judgment 
as  well  as  actual  sins  are  subject  to  the  operation 
of  this  same  inexorable  law.  The  lesson  that  respon- 
sibility for  our  deeds  cannot  be  measured  by  the 
results  which  we  ourselves  willingly  or  unwillingly 
encounter,  is  one  which  impresses  itself  upon  us  more 
and  more,  as  we  meet  in  increasing  numbers  with 
instances  in  which  the  shadow  of  disgrace  and  disaster 
darkens  the  lives  of  those  innocent  and  even  incapable 
of  wrong-doing.  It  was  because  Shakespeare  realized 
fully  the  wide  range  of  this  law  that  he  altered  the 
catastrophe  of  Lear.  The  arrogant  monarch,  impatient 
of  contradiction,  deluded  by  grossest  flattery,  driving 

414 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

from  his  presence  with  contumely  those  most  devoted 
to  his  person,  must  endure  to  the  bitter  end  the  results 
of  his  folly.  Not  only  is  he  himself  to  become  a 
wretched,  weak,  and  impotent  thing,  exposed  to  the 
malignity  of  pitiless  daughters  and  the  fury  of  pitiless 
elements,  and  from  both  alike  unshielded ;  but  as 
inevitably  is  he  to  drag  down  with  him  in  his  ruin 
those  nearest  and  dearest,  whose  loyalty  and  love  he 
has  learned  to  know  too  late.  A  happy  ending  was 
an  anomaly  and  an  impropriety  to  that  tragedy  of 
passion  and  suffering  in  which  the  weakness  of  man's 
nature  amid  the  delirium  of  the  moral  forces  finds 
its  fitting  counterpart  in  the  helplessness  of  man  him- 
self amid  the  delirium  of  the  forces  of  nature. 

It  would  be  wrong  to  convey  the  impression  that 
the  element  of  poetic  justice  is  absent  from  Shake- 
speare's representation  of  life  any  more  than  it  is  from 
life  itself.  But  in  both  it  at  times  never  appears  at 
all ;  in  both  it  acts  but  imperfectly  whenever  it  does 
appear.  In  '  Macbeth '  the  punishment  falls  at  last  upon 
the  guilty  husband  and  the  guilty  wife.  But  that,  after 
all,  is  a  matter  of  subsidiary  consequence  ;  as  an  end 
in  view  it  scarcely  plays  any  part  in  the  development 
of  the  drama.  It  is  the  gradual  transforming  power 
of  sin,  when  once  it  has  taken  full  possession  of  the 
soul,  which  here  arrests  the  attention.  It  is  the  dif- 
ferent character  of  the  devastation  wrought  bv  it  in 
different  natures  which  furnishes  a  study  as  full  of 
psychological  interest  as  it  is  of  dramatic.  Macbeth, 
at  the  opening  of  the  play,  the  valiant  general,  the 
loyal  subject,  promises  even  then,  though  unfixed  in 

415 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A  DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

principle,  to  end  his  career  as  honorably  as  it  has  been 
begun.  His  wife  it  is  who  at  the  outset  is  the  domi- 
nant character.  In  her  dauntless  hardihood  she  gives 
courage  and  strength  to  her  husband's  infirm  purpose, 
which,  while  longing  for  the  fruits  of  crime,  shrinks 
from  its  commission.  But  before  the  play  approaches 
its  conclusion,  the  positions  of  the  two  have  been 
reversed.  The  gallant  soldier  of  the  early  part  has 
become  a  cruel  tyrant,  as  inaccessible  to  remorse  as  he 
is  to  pity.  The  man,  who  at  his  first  entrance  into 
crime  was  horrified  by  the  phantoms  of  his  own  dis- 
ordered brain,  comes  to  encounter  recklessly  and  defy 
undauntedly  the  terrors  of  the  visible  and  invisible 
worlds.  The  moral  nature  has  become  an  absolute 
wreck.  But  with  the  hardening  of  the  heart  and  the 
deadening  of  the  conscience  have  disappeared  entirely 
the  compunctions  which  once  unnerved  the  resolution 
and  the  tremors  which  shook  the  soul.  Not  so  with 
Lady  Macbeth.  Her  nature,  far  finer  and  higher  strung, 
though  at  the  beginning  more  resolute,  pays  at  last 
in  remorseful  days  and  sleepless  nights  the  full  penalty 
of  violated  law.  While  Macbeth  grows  stronger  as 
a  man  by  the  very  course  which  destroys  his  suscepti- 
bility to  moral  considerations,  this  very  susceptibility 
on  her  part  increases  with  the  success  of  the  deed  she 
has  prompted  and  in  which  she  has  taken  determined 
part.  The  woman  could  not  unsex  herself  wholly,  and 
succumbs  at  last  to  the  long-continued  and  increasing 
strain  of  a  burden  she  was  not  fitted  to  bear. 

Pervading    all    these    plays    of    Shakespeare   which 
involve  the  problems  that  beset  man's  life  and  destiny 

416 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  DRAMATIST  AND  MORALIST 

is  not  the  shallow  conception  of  poetic  justice,  never 
fully  realized  in  fact  and  rarely  realizable  even  in  the 
most  imperfect  way,  but  instead  the  profound  con- 
viction he  inspires  of  the  sway  and  sweep  of  those 
moral  forces  which,  once  set  in  motion,  must  go  on 
to  work  out  their  inevitable  course  in  human  conduct, 
whether  it  be  in  itself  right  or  wrong,  whether  it  lead 
to  triumph  or  to  failure.  There  belongs  not  indeed 
to  his  drama  the  fatalism  of  the  Greek  tragedy  in 
which  the  hero  is  urged  on  by  the  stress  of  irresistible 
necessity  to  a  catastrophe  at  which  he  shudders  but 
which  he    cannot  shun.     The  idea  that    runs   through 

O 

it  all,  that  unites  its  most  discordant  elements,  that 
binds  in  one  common  bond  its  most  diverse  themes, 
is  the  existence  of  the  reign  of  law  ;  is  the  inexorable 
sequence  of  cause  and  effect,  whether  it  bring  with 
it  joy  or  sorrow,  whether  it  point  to  the  serene  close 
of  happy  days,  or  disclose  itself  in  the  ever-recurring 
tragedy  of  lives  going  out  in  noisy  defeat  or  in  countless 
quieter  forms  of  failure.  It  is  not  at  all  that  every 
act  is  followed  by  the  specific  result  which  is  most 
appropriate  to  it,  according  to  our  imperfect  conceptions 
of  justice.  It  is  that  the  general  consequences  of 
human  conduct  correspond  in  the  Shakespearean  drama 
with  the  consequences  which  we  see  exemplified  in 
the  life  about  us.  In  the  domain  of  morals  as  in  that 
of  letters  it  is  the  art  which  holds  the  mirror  up  to 
nature. 

Let   us   illustrate    the   fact   by  the   play  which    has 
just   been  under  consideration.      Macbeth 's   overthrow 
and  death  is  a  mere  accident  of  personal  fortune.     It 
27  417 


SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   DRAMATIC  ARTIST 

might  or  might  not  have  happened  in  real  life.  In  his 
case  a  sort  of  poetic  justice  has  been  exemplified ;  but 
it  was  in  no  wise  a  necessary  sequence  of  the  crimes 
he  has  committed.  That,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned, 
is  found  elsewhere,  and  would  have  been  in  active 
operation  had  he  returned  victorious  from  the  battle- 
field on  which  he  fell.  He  himself  recognized  it,  and 
announced  it.  In  the  years  which  were  coming  he 
could  not  look  to  have  that  which  should  chiefly  attend 
a  happy  old  age,  —  "  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of 

friends  ; " 

"  But,  in  their  stead, 

Curses,  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honor,  bi'eath, 

Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not." 

Upon  him  in  the  pride  of  power  had  fallen  already 
the  penalty  of  violated  law.  It  is  this  inflexible  enforce- 
ment of  the  genuine  decrees  which  regulate  the  moral 
government  of  the  universe  ;  it  is  his  full  acceptation 
and  adequate  representation  of  the  far-reaching  conse- 
quences which  follow  human  action,  whether  it  be  due 
to  frailty  or  to  fault,  whether  it  spring  from  folly, 
ignorance,  wilfulness,  credulousness,  irresolution,  or 
anything  contained  in  the  darker  catalogue  of  sins  and 
crimes;  it  is  his  insistence  upon  the  actual  rewards 
and  penalties  that  wait  upon  conduct ;  these  it  is  that 
entitle  Shakespeare  to  the  position  he  holds  of  the  great 
moral  poet  of  humanity. 


418 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  following  pages  contain  a  bibliography  of  the  works, 
referred  to  in  this  volume,  which  appeared  from  the  Resto- 
ration to  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century.  For  obvious 
reasons  they  have  been  put  down  in  chronological  order ; 
but  they  are  in  the  index  with  a  reference  to  the  page  on 
which  they  are  found  here.  In  every  instance  they  appear 
under  the  date  of  the  year  in  which  they  were  first  pub- 
lished; but  the  full  title  is  given  only  of  the  particular 
edition  which  has  been  consulted  in  the  preparation  of  this 
volume.  The  prefix  of  an  asterisk  to  a  title  signifies  that 
the  work  has  not  been  seen :  that  any  account  given  of  it, 
or  of  its  contents,  has  been  taken  from  others. 

1663. 

The  Adventures  of  Five  Hours.  A  Tragi-Comedy.  Feb.  21°  1662.  Im- 
primatur John  Berkenhead.  London,  Printed  for  Henry  Herring- 
mann.     1663. 

1865. 

Four  New  Plays,  viz. :  The  Surprisal,  The  Committee,  Comedies.  The 
Indian-Queen,  The  Vestal- Virgin,  Tragedies.  As  they  were  acted 
by  his  Majesties  Servants  at  the  Theatre  Royal.  Written  by  the 
Honourable  Sir  Robert  Howard.  Imprimatur,  March  7.  166f  Roger 
L'Estrange.    London,  Printed  for  Henry  Herringmann.     1665. 

1667. 
Love  Tricks  :  or,  The  School  of  Complements  ;  as  it  is  now  acted  bv  his 
Royal  Highnesse  the  Duke  of  York's  Servants  at  the  Theatre  in  Little 
Lincolns-Inne  Fields.  By  J.  S.  Licens'd  May  24.  1667.  Roger 
L'Estrange.  London,  Sold  by  Thomas  Dring  Junior.  1667. 
The  Indian  Emperour,  or,  the  Conquest  of  Mexico  by  the  Spaniards. 
Being  the  sequel  of  the  Indian  Queen.  By  John  Dryden,  Esq;  Lon- 
don, Printed  for  Henry  Herringrnan.     1694. 

419 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


1668. 


The  Great  Favorite,  or,  the  Duke  of  Lerma.     A  Tragedy.     As  it  was 
acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  by  His  Majesty's  Servants.     Written  by 
the  Honourable  Sir  Robert  Howard.    London,  Printed  for  Henry 
Herringman.     1692. 
in  Five  New  Plays.     1692. 

Secret-Love,  or  the  Maiden-Queen :  As  it  is  acted  by  his  Majesties  Ser- 
vants at  the  Theater-Royal.  Written  by  John  Dryden,  Esq ;  London, 
Printed  for  Henry  Herringman,  1669. 

The  Sullen  Lovers:  or,  The  Impertinents.  A  Comedy  acted  by  his 
Highness  the  Duke  of  York's  Servants.  Written  by  Tho.  Shadwell. 
London,  Printed  for  Henry  Herringman.     1670. 

Of  Dramatick  Poesie,  an  Essay.  By  John  Dryden  Esq :  London,  Printed 
for  Henry  Herringman,  1668. 

1669. 

The  Wild  Gallant :  A  Comedy.  As  it  is  acted  by  their  Majesties  Ser- 
vants. Written  by  John  Dryden,  Esq ;  London,  Printed  for  Henry 
Herringman,  1694. 

1670. 

Tyrannick  Love  ;  or,  the  Royal  Martyr.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  by 
his  Majestie's  Servants  at  the  Theatre  Royal.  By  John  Dryden, 
Servant  to  his  Majesty.     London,  Printed  for  H.  Herringman,  1686. 

The  Tempest,  or  the  Enchanted  Island.  A  Comedy.  As  it  is  now  acted 
at  his  Highness  the  Duke  of  York's,  Theatre.  London,  Printed  for 
Henry  Herringman.     1674. 

1671. 

Paradise  Regained.  A  Poem.  In  IV  Books.  To  which  is  added  Sam- 
son Agonistes.  The  author  John  Milton.  London,  Printed  for  John 
Starkey.     1671. 

1672. 

The  Conquest  of  Granada  by  the  Spaniards :  In  two  parts.  Acted  at  the 
Theater  Royall.  Written  by  John  Dryden  Servant  to  his  Majesty. 
Printed  for  Henry  Herringman.     1672. 

Almanzor  and  Almahide,  or  the  Conquest  of  Granada.  The  Second  Part. 
As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theater-Royal.  Written  by  John  Dryden  Ser- 
vant to  his  Majesty.     Printed  for  Henry  Herringman.     1672. 

1673. 

The  Law  against  Lovers,  pp.  272-329 

in  The  Works  of  Sr  William  D'Avenant  K»  consisting  of  those  which 
were  formerly  printed,  and  those  which  he  design'd  for  the  press : 
now  published  out  of  the  Author's  original  copies.  London :  Printed 
for  Henry  Herringman.     1673. 

420 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


1674. 


Macbeth,  a  Tragedy :  With  all  the  alterations,  amendments,  additions, 
and  new  songs.  As  it  is  now  acted  at  the  Dukes  Theatre.  London ; 
Printed  for  A.  Clark,  1674. 

Monsieur  Rapin's  Reflections  on  Aristotle's  Treatise  of  Poesie.  Con- 
taining the  necessary,  rational,  and  universal  rules  for  epick,  dra- 
matick,  and  the  other  sorts  of  poetry.  With  reflections  on  the  works 
of  the  ancient  and  modern  poets,  and  their  faults  noted.  Made 
English  by  Mr.  Rymer :  By  whom  are  added  some  reflections  on 
English  poets. 
in  Rapin's  Critical  Works,  Vol.  ii.    London,  1731.    pp.  107-241. 

1675. 

The  Mock-Tempest:  or  the  Enchanted  Castle.  Acted  at  the  Theatre 
Royal.  Written  by  T.  Duffett.  London,  Printed  for  William  Cade- 
man,  1675. 

The  heading  of  the  play  itself  is  "The  New  Tempest  or  the  En- 
chanted Castle." 

Theatrum  Poetarum,  or  a  Complete  Collection  of  the  Poets,  especially 
the  most  eminent  of  all  ages.  The  antients  distinguish't  from  the 
modern  in  their  several  alphabets.  With  some  observations  and  re- 
flections upon  many  of  them,  particularly  upon  those  of  our  own 
nation.  Together  with  a  prefatory  discourse  of  the  poets  and  poetry 
in  generall.  By  Edward  Phillips.  London,  Printed  for  Charles 
Smith,  1675. 

1678. 

The  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  consider'd  and  examin'd  by  the  practice 
of  the  ancients,  and  the  common  sense  of  all  ages  in  a  Letter  to 
Fleetwood  Shepheard,  Esq :  by  Thomas  Rymer,  of  Gray's  Iuu,  Es- 
quire. London,  Printed  for  Richard  Tonson,  1678.  Licensed  July 
17,  1677.     R.  L'Estrange. 

Edgar,  or  the  English  Monarch;  an  heroick  Tragedy.  By  Thomas 
Rymer  of  Gray's-Inn  Esq:  Licensed  Septemb.  13.  1677.  Roger 
L'Estrange.     London,  Printed  for  Richard  Tonson,  1678. 

All  for  Love :  or,  The  World  Well  Lost.  A  Tragedy,  as  it  is  acted  at 
the  Theatre-Royal ;  and  written  in  imitation  of  Shakespeare's  style. 
By  John  Dryden,  Servant  to  his  Majesty.  In  the  Savoy :  Printed 
for  Henry  Herringman,  1678. 

The  History  of  Timon  of  Athens,  the  Man-Hater.  As  it  is  acted  at  the 
Dukes  Theatre.  Made  into  a  Play.  By  Tho.  Shadwell.  Licensed, 
Eeb.  18,  167£,  Ro.  L'Estrange.  London,  Printed  for  Henry  Her- 
ringman, 1678. 

1679. 

Troilus  and  Cressida,  or,  Truth  found  too  late.  A  Tragedy  as  it  is  acted 
at  the  Dukes  Theatre.    To  which  is  prefix'd,  A  Preface  containing 

421 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

the  Grounds  of  Criticism  in  Tragedy.  "Written  by  John  Dryden, 
Servant  to  his  Majesty.  London,  Printed  for  Jacob  Tonson  and  Abel 
Swall,  1679. 

1680. 

The  History  and  Fall  of  Cains  Marius.     A  Tragedy.     As  it  is  acted  at 

the  Theatre  Royal.    By  Thomas  Otway.     London,  Printed  for  S. 

Flesher,  1680. 
Henry  the  Sixth,  or  The  Misery  of  Civil  War,  as  it  was  acted  at  the 

Dukes  Theatre.     Written  by  Mr.  Crown.     London,  Printed  for  R. 

Bentley  and  M.  Magnes.     1681. 
Horace's  Art  of  Poetry, 

in  Poems  by  the  Earl  of  Roscommon.     To  which  is  added,  an  Essay 

on  Poetry,  by  the   Earl  of   Mulgrave,  now  Duke  of  Buckingham. 

Together  with  poems  by  Mr.  Richard  Duke.      London.      Printed 

for  J.  Touson,  1717. 

1681. 

Henry  the  Sixth,  The  First  Part.  With  the  Murder  of  Humphrey  Duke 
of  Glocester.  As  it  was  acted  at  the  Dukes  Theatre.  Written  by 
Mr.  Crown.     London,  Printed  for  R.  Bentley,  and  M.  Magnes.    1681. 

The  Spanish  Fryar,  or,  The  Double  Discovery.  Acted  at  the  Duke'a 
Theatre.  Written  by  John  Dryden,  Servant  to  his  Majesty.  London, 
Printed  for  Richard  Tonson  and  Jacob  Tonson,  1681. 

The  History  of  King  Lear.  Acted  at  the  Duke's  Theatre.  Reviv'd  with 
alterations.     By  N.  Tate.     London,  Printed  for  E.  Flesher,  1681. 

The  History  of  King  Richard  the  Second.  Acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal, 
under  the  name  of  the  Sicilian  Usurper.  With  a  prefatory  Epistle 
in  Vindication  of  the  Author.  Occasiou'd  by  the  prohibition  of  this 
play  on  the  Stage.  By  N.  Tate.  London,  Printed  for  Richard  Ton- 
son  and  Jacob  Tonson.     1681. 

1682. 

The  Ingratitude  of  a  Common- Wealth :  or,  the  Fall  of  Cains  Martina 
Coriolanus.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal.  By  N.  Tate. 
Printed  for  Joseph  Hindmarsh,  1682. 

The  Injured  Princes,  or  the  Fatal  Wager :  as  it  was  acted  at  the  Theater- 
Royal,  by  his  Majesties  Servants.  By  Tho.  Durfey,  Gent.  London  : 
Printed  for  R.  Bentley  and  M.  Magnes,  1682. 

1683. 
The  Duke  of  Guise.     A  Tragedy.     Acted  by  their  Majesties  Servants. 
Written  by  Mr.  Dryden  and  Mr.  Lee.    London,  Printed  for  R.  Bent- 
ley and  J.  Tonson.     1687. 

1687. 
Titus  Andronicus,  or  the  Rape  of  Lavinia.     Acted  at  the  Theatre  Royall. 
Alter'd  from  Mr.   Shakespear's   works  by  Mr.  Edw.  Ravenscroft. 

422 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Licensed  Dec  21,  1686.  K.  L.  S.  London,  Printed  for  J.  Hindmarsh, 
1687. 
Mixt  Essays  upon  Tragedies,  Comedies,  Italian  Comedies,  English  Come- 
dies, and  Opera's  To  his  Grace,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham.  Written 
originally  in  French  by  the  Sieur  de  Saint  Evvremont,  Licensed  liog. 
L'Estrange.     London  :  Printed  for  Timothy  Goodwin,  1687. 

1690. 

Don  Sebastian,  King  of  Portugal :  A  Tragedy  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal. 
Written  by  Mr.  Dryden.  London :  Printed  for  Jo.  Hindmarsh. 
1692. 

1692. 

The  Gentleman's  Journal :  or  the  Monthly  Miscellany.  By  way  of  letter 
to  a  Gentleman  in  the  Country.  Consisting  of  news,  history,  philo- 
sophy, poetry,  musick,  translations,  &c.     London.     1692-93. 

Cleomenes,  the  Spartan  Heroe.  A  Tragedy,  as  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre 
Royal.  Written  by  Mr.  Dryden.  To  which  is  prefixt  the  Life  of 
Cleomenes.     London,  Printed  for  Jacob  Touson,  1692. 

The  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  Consider'd  and  Examin'd  by  the  practice 
of  the  ancients,  and  the  common  sense  of  all  ages  in  a  Letter  to  Fleet- 
wood Shepheard,  Esq  ;  By  Mr.  Rymer  Servant  to  their  Majesties. 
Part  I.    The  second  Edition.     Printed  and  sold  by  Richard  Baldwin. 

1692. 

1693. 

A  Short  View  of  Tragedy ;  it's  original,  excellency,  and  corruption. 
With  some  reflections  on  Shakespear,  and  other  practitioners  for  the 
stage.  By  Mr.  Rymer,  Servant  to  their  Majesties.  Printed  and  sold 
by  Richard  Baldwin.     1 693. 

The  Impartial  Critick :  or  some  observations  upon  a  late  book  entituled, 
A  Short  View  of  Tragedy,  written  by  Mr.  Rymer,  and  dedicated  to 
the  Right  Honourable  Charles  Earl  of  Dorset,  &c.  By  Mr.  Dennis. 
London  :  Printed  for  R.  Taylor.     1693. 

1694. 

Some  Reflections  on  Mr  Rymer's  Short  View  of  Tragedy,  and  an  At- 
tempt at  a  Vindication  of  Shakespear,  in  an  Essay  directed  to  John 
Dryden,  Esq. 

in  Miscellaneous  Letters  and  Essays,  on  several  Subjects.  Philosophical, 
Mural,  Historical,  Critical,  Amorous,  &c.  in  Prose  and  Verse.  Di- 
rected to  John  Dryden,  Esq  ;  The  Honourable  Geo.  Granvill,  Esq  : 
Walter  Moile,  Esq:  Mr.  Dennis,  Mr.  Congreve,  and  other  Eminent 
Men  of  the  Age.  By  several  Gentlemen  and  Ladies.  London  : 
Printed  for  Benjamin  Bragg,  1694. 

The  Epistle  dedicatory  to  the  Honourable  Sir  John  Trenchard  is 
signed  by  Charles  Gildon. 

423 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


1695. 


Lore  for  Love :  A  Comedy.  Acted  at  the  Theatre  in  Little  Lincolns- 
Inn  Fields,  by  his  Majestys  Servants.  Written  by  Mr.  Congreve. 
London  :  Printed  for  Jacob  Touson.    1695. 

1696. 

*  The  Mock  Marriage.    A  Comedy.     By  Thomas  Scott.    London:  1696. 
Letters  upon  Several  Occasions :  Written  by  and  between  Mr.  Dryden, 

Mr.  Wycherly,  Mr. ,  Mr.  Congreve  and  Mr.  Dennis. 

in  The  Works  of  John  Dennis.    Vol.  ii.    London,  1718.    pp.  480-543. 
Oroouoko  :    A   Tragedy.     As   it   is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal,  by  his 

Majestys  Servants.     Written  by  Tho.  Sontherne.     London  :  Printed 

for  H.  Playford,  B.  Tooke,  and  A.  Bellesworth.     1699. 

1697. 

A  Plot,  and  no  Plot.  A  Comedy,  as  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in 
Drury-Lane.  Written  by  Mr.  Dennis.  London,  Printed  for  R. 
Parker,  P.  Buck,  and  R.  Wellington.     [1697.] 

1698. 

Sauny  the  Scott :  or,  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew.  A  Comedy.  As  it  is 
now  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal.  Written  by  J.  Lacey,  Servant  to 
his  Majesty.  And  never  before  printed.  London  :  Printed  and  sold 
by  E.  Whitlock.     1698. 

Phaeton  :  or,  The  Fatal  Divorce.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the 
Theatre  Royal.  In  imitation  of  the  ancients.  With  some  reflections 
on  a  book  call'd,  A  Short  View  of  the  Immorality  and  Profaneuess  of 
the  English  Stage.  London,  Printed  for  Abel  Roper.  1698.  [By 
Charles  Gildon.] 

1700. 

[King  Richard  iii.  as  altered  by  Cibber.]  King  Richard  the  Third,  a 
Tragedy,  by  Shakespeare.  As  performed  at  the  Theatre-Royal, 
Drury-Lane,  regulated  from  the  Prompt-Book,  with  permission  of  the 
Managers,  by  Mr.  Hopkins,  prompter.  An  introduction,  and  notes 
critical  and  illustrative  are  added  by  the  Authors  of  the  Dramatic 
Censor.  The  Third  edition.  London  :  Printed  for  John  Bell.  1779. 
A  note  in  this  edition  to  the  heading  of  the  play  says  :  "  This  Trag- 
edy being  admirably  altered  from  the  original,  by  that  excellent  judge 
and  ornament  of  the  stage,  Colley  ClUier,  we  shall  have  the  fewer 
observations  to  make  upon  it."  On  this  Genest  in  his  copy  writes 
the  following  comment :  "  This  note  shows  the  editor  a  bigger  fool 
than  Cibber  himself." 

Measure  for  Measure,  or  Beauty  the  best  advocate.  As  it  is  acted  at  the 
Theatre  in  Lincolns-Inn-Fields.     Written  originally  by  Mr.  Shake- 

424 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

spear  :  And  now  very  much  Alter'd  ;  with  additions  of  several  Enter- 
tainments of  Music.     London  :  Printed  for  D.  Brown  and  It.  Parker. 
1700.     [By  Charles  Gildon.] 
Ipliigenia.     A  Tragedy,  acted  at  the  theatre  in  Little  LincolnsJnn-Fields. 
By  Mr.  Dennis.     London.     Printed  for  Richard  Parker.     1700. 

1701. 

The  Ambitious  Stepmother.     A   Tragedy.     As  'twas  acted  at  the  New 

Theatre  in  Little-Lincolns-Iun   Fields.     By  his  Majestys  Servants. 

By  N.  Rowe,  Esq ;.     London,  Printed  for  Peter  Buck.     1701. 
The  Jew  of  Venice.     A  Comedy.     As  it  is  acted  at  the  theatre  in  Little- 

Lincoln-Iun-Fields,  by  his  Majesty's  Servants.     London,  Printed  for 

Ber.  Lintott,  1701.     [By  Richard  Granville,  Lord  Lansdowue.] 
Love's  Victim  :  or,  The  Queen  of  Wales.     A  Tragedy.     As  it  was  acted 

at  the  Theatre  in  Lincolus-Inn-Fields.     By  his  Majestys  Servants. 

London,  Printed  for  Richard  Parker,  and  George  Strahan.     1701. 

[By  Charles  Gildon.] 

1702. 

The  Comical  Gallant :  or  the  Amours  of  Sir  John  Falstaffe.  A  Comedy. 
As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drurv-lane.  By  his  Majesty's 
Servants.  By  Mr.  Dennis.  To  which  is  added,  A  Large  Account  of 
the  Taste  in  Poetry,  and  the  Causes  of  the  degeneracy  of  it.  Lon- 
don, Printed  and  sold  by  A.  Baldwin.     1702. 

A  Discourse  upon  Comedy,  in  reference  to  the  English  Stage.      In  a 
letter  to  a  Friend, 
in  Farquhar's  Works,  tenth  edition,  1772.     Vol.  I.  pp.  69-92. 

1703. 

Love's  Contrivance :  or,  Le  Mtdecin  malr/re  Lui.  A  Comedy.  As  it  is 
acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Drury-Lane, 

in  vol  ii  of  The  Dramatic  Works  of  the  Celebrated  Mrs.  Centlivre, 
with  a  new  account  of  her  life.  Complete  in  three  volumes. 
London  :  John  Pearson.     1872. 

1704. 

The  Grounds  of  Criticism  in  Poetry,  contain'd  in  some  new  discoveries 
never  made  before,  requisite  for  the  Writing  and  Judging  of  Poems 
surely.  Being  a  preliminary  to  a  larger  work  design'd  to  lie  pub- 
lished in  folio,  and  entitul'd,  A  Criticism  upon  our  most  Celebrated 
Poets  deceas'd.  By  Mr.  Dennis.  London,  Printed  for  Geo.  Strahan 
and  Bernard  Lintott.     1704. 

1708. 
Roscius  Anglicanus,  or,  An  Historical  Review  of  the  Stage  from  1660  to 
1706.     By  John  Downes.     A  facsimile  reprint  of  the  rare  original 
of   1708.     With  an  historical  preface  by  Joseph   Knight.  London: 
Jar  vis  &  Son.     1886. 

425 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1709. 

The  Works  of  Mr.  William  Shakespear ;  in  six  volumes.  Adorn'd  with 
cuts.  Revis'd  and  Corrected,  with  an  account  of  the  Life  and  Writ- 
ings of  the  author.  By  N.  Rowe  Esq ;  London :  Printed  for  Jacob 
Tonson.     1709. 

1710. 

The  Works  of  Mr.  William  Shakespear.  Volume  the  Seventh.  Con- 
taining, Venus  &  Adonis  Tarquin  &  Lucrece  and  His  Miscellany 
Poems.  With  Critical  Remarks  on  his  Plays,  &c.  to  which  is  pre- 
fix'd  an  Essay  on  the  Art,  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  Stage  in  Greece, 
Rome  and  England.  London  :  Printed  for  E.  Curll  and  E.  Sanger. 
1710. 

Elfrid  :  or  the  Fair  Inconstant.  A  Tragedy  :  as  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre 
Royal,  by  her  Majesty's  Servants.  To  which  is  added  the  Walking 
Statue :  or,  The  Devil  in  the  Wine-Cellar.  A  Farce.  Written  by 
Mr.  Hill,  1710.  London,  Printed  for  Bernard  Lintott  and  Egbert 
Sanger. 

1712. 

The  Distrest  Mother.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal 
in  Drury-Lane.  By  her  Majesty's  Servants.  Written  by  Mr.  Phil- 
ips.    London  :  Printed  for  S.  Buckley  and  J.  Tonson,  1712. 

An  Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Writings  of  Shakespear :  with  some  letters 
of  criticism  to  the  Spectator.  By  Mr.  Dennis.  London  :  Printed  for 
Bernard  Lintott.     1712. 

The  Perplex'd  Lovers.  A  Comedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal 
in  Drury  Lane.  By  her  Majesty's  Servants.  Written  by  Mrs.  Su- 
sanna Cent-livre.  London  :  Printed  for  Owen  Lloyd,  William  Lewis, 
John  Graves,  and  Tho.  Harbin.     1712. 

1713. 

Cato.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury-Lane, 
By  her  Majesty's  Servants.  By  Mr.  Addison.  London  :  Printed  for 
J."  Tonson.     1713. 

Remarks  upon  Cato,  a  Tragedy.  By  Mr.  Dennis.  London :  Printed  for 
B.  Lintott,  1713. 

1714. 

The  Tragedy  of  Jane  Shore.  Written  in  imitation  of  Shakespear's  style. 
By  N.  Rowe,  Esq ;.     London  :  Printed  for  Bernard  Lintott.     [1714.] 

1718. 

The  Complete  Art  of  Poetry.  In  Six  parts.  [In  two  volumes.]  By 
Charles  Gildon,  Gent.  London :  Printed  for  Charles  Rivington. 
1718. 

426 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  Non- Juror.  A  Comedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal,  by 
his  Majesty's  Servants.  Written  by  Mr.  Cibber.  London :  Printed 
forB.  Lintot.     1718. 

1720. 

The  Invader  of  his  Country :  or,  The  Fatal  Resentment.  A  Tragedy. 
As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury-Lane.  By  his  Majesty's 
Servants.  By  Mr.  Dennis.  London  :  Printed  for  J.  Pemberton  and 
J.  Watts.     1720. 

1731. 

The  London  Merchant :  or,  the  History  of  George  Barnwell.  As  it  is 
acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury-Lane.  By  his  Majesty's  Ser- 
vants.    By  Mr.  Lillo.     London  :  Printed  for  J.  Gray.     1731. 

Considerations  on  the  Stage,  and  on  the  Advantages  which  arise  to  a 
Nation  from  the  Encouragement  of  Arts.  London ;  Printed  in  the 
year  1731.     A  supplement  — pp.  45-74  —  to 

The  Triumphs  of  Love  and  Honour,  a  play,  as  it  is  acted  by  his  Majes- 
ty's Servants,  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury  Lane.  To  which  are 
added  —  (see  above.)  By  Mr.  Cooke.  London,  Printed  for  J. 
Roberts. 

1735. 

Junius  Brutus,  a  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury- 
Lane,  by  his  Majesty's  Servants.  By  Mr.  William  Duncombe.  Lon- 
don, Printed ;  and  sold  by  J.  Roberts.     1735. 

1736. 

Some  Remarks  on  the  Tragedy  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark,  written 
by  Mr.  William  Shakespeare.  Loudon  :  Printed  for  W.  Wilkins. 
1736. 

1737. 

The  Historical  Register,  For  the  year  1736.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  New 
Theatre  in  the  Hay-Market.  To  which  is  added  a  very  Merry  Trag- 
edy, called  Eurydice  Hiss'd,  or,  A  Word  to  the  Wise.  Both  written 
by  the  Author  of  Pasquin.  To  these  are  prefixed  a  long  dedication 
to  the  Puhlick,  and  a  Preface  to  that  Dedication.  London,  Printed  ; 
and  sold  by  J.  Roberts.     [1737]     [By  Henry  Fielding.] 


1740. 

Elmerick :  or,  Justice  Triumphant.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the 
Theatre  Royal  in  Drury-Lane.  By  Mr.  Lillo.  Loudon :  Printed  for 
John  Gray.     1740. 

427 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1745. 

Papal  Tvranny  in  the  Reign  of  King  John.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted 
at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Covent-Garden.  By  his  Majesty's  Servants. 
By  Colley  Cibber,  Esq  ;  London  :  Printed  for  J.  Watts.     1745. 

Le  Theatre  Anglois.     A  Londres.     1745-1748.     Tomes  I-VIIL 

[Par  Pierre  Antoine  de  la  Place.] 

1746. 

Critical  Observations  on  Shakespeare.  By  John  Upton  Prebendary  of 
Rochester.     London  :  Printed  for  G.  Hawkins.     1746. 

1747. 

The  Roman  and  English  Comedy  Consider'd  and  Compar'd.  With  Re- 
marks on  the  Suspicious  Husband.  And  an  Examen  into  the  merit 
of  the  present  Comic  Actors.  By  S.  Foote,  Esq  :  London  :  Printed 
for  T.  Waller.     1747. 

1749. 

Q.  Horatii  Flacci  Epistolae  ad  Pisones,  et  Augustum  :  With  an  English 
commentary  and  notes  :  to  which  are  added  critical  dissertations.  By 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Hurd.  In  three  volumes.  The  fourth  edition,  cor- 
rected and  enlarged.     London,  Printed  for  A.  Millar.     1766. 

1752. 

Eugenia :  a  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  in  Drury- 
Laue,  By  his  Majesty's  Servants.  London :  Printed  for  A.  Millar. 
1752.     [by  Philip  Francis.] 

Miscellaneous"  Observations  on  the  Tragedy  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Den- 
mark. With  a  preface  containing  some  general  remarks  on  the 
Writings  of  Shakespeare.     London  :  Printed  for  W.  Clarke.     1752. 

Elfrida,  a  Dramatic  Poem,  written  on  the  model  of  the  Antient  Greek 
Tragedy.  By  Mr.  Mason.  London,  Printed  for  J  and  P.  Knapton. 
1752. 

1753. 

Boadicia.    A  Tragedy.    As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Drury- 

Lane.    By  Mr.  Glover.    London :  Printed  for  R  and  J.  Dodsley  and 

M.  Cooper.     1753. 
The   Gamester.     A  Tragedy.    As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in 

Drury-Lane.     London :  Printed  for  R.  Francklin.     1753. 
The  Rehearsal :  or  Bays  in  Petticoats.     A  Comedy  in  two  acts.     As  it  is 

performed  at  the"  Theatre  Royal  in  Drury  Lane.    Written  by  Mrs. 

Clive.     The  music  composed  by  Dr.  Boyce.    London:  Printed  for 

R.  Dodsley.     1753.     [First  acted  March  15,  1750.] 

428 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Shakespear  Illustrated  :  or  the  Novels  and  Histories  on  which  the  Plays 
of  Shakespear  are  founded,  collected  and  translated  from  the  origi- 
nal authors.  With  critical  remarks.  In  two  volumes.  By  the  author 
of  the  Female  Quixote.    London  :  Printed  for  A.  Millar,  1753. 

1754. 

Philoclea.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Covent 
Garden.  Written  by  M°Namara  Morgan,  a  Student  of  the  Middle 
Temple.     Loudon  :  Printed  for  P.  and  J.  Dodsley,  1 754. 

Shakespear  Illustrated.  [Title-page  same  as  in  volumes  of  1753.]  The 
third  and  last  volume.     1754. 

1756. 

Athelstan.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Drury- 
Lane.  London,  Printed  for  Lockyer  Davis  and  Charles  Reymers, 
1756.     [By  John  Brown.] 

1757. 

Douglas:  a  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Covent 
Garden.    London  :  Printed  for  A.  Millar.     1757.     [By  John  Home.] 

1758. 

Agis :  a  Tragedy.    As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury-Lane. 

London :  Printed  for  A.  Millar.     1758.     [By  John  Home.] 
Cleone.     A  Tragedy.    As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Covent 

Garden.     Written  by  R.  Dodsley.     London:  Printed  for  R.and  J. 

Dodsley,  1758. 

1759. 

Cymbeline.  A  Tragedy,  altered  from  Shakespeare.  As  it  is  performed 
at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Covent-Garden.  By  William  Hawkins,  M.  A. 
late  fellow  of  Pembroke  College,  and  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the 
University  of  Oxford.  London :  Printed  for  James  Rivington  and 
James  Fletcher,  1759. 

Caractacus,  a  Dramatic  Poem :  Written  on  the  model  of  the  Antient  Greek 
Tragedy.  By  the  author  of  Elfrida.  London  :  Printed  for  J.  Knap- 
ton  and  R.and  J.  Dodsley.     1759.     [By  William  Mason.] 

Oronooko :  a  Tragedy.  As  it  is  now  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drnry- 
Lane.  By  his  Majesty's  Servants.  By  Thomas  Southern.  With 
alterations.  London:  Printed  for  C.  Bathurst,  1759.  [Alterations 
by  John  Hawkesworth.] 

1760. 

Dialogues  of  the  Dead.  The  fifth  edition,  Corrected.  London  :  Printed 
for  J.  Murray.     17G8.     [By  George,  Lord  Lyttelton.] 

429 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1762. 

Elements  of  Criticism.  The  Eighth  Edition.  With  the  author's  last  cor- 
rections and  additions.  [In  two  volumes.]  London:  Printed  for 
Vernor  and  Hood.     1805.     [By  Henry  Home,  Lord  Karnes.] 

*  Remarks  on  the  Beauties  of  Poetry.  By  Daniel  Webb,  Esq.;  London. 
Dodsley.     1762. 

1763. 
Philaster,  a  Tragedy.    Written  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.    With  altera- 
tions.   As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury-Lane.    London : 
Printed  for  J.  and  R.  Tonson,  1763. 
[Alterations  by  George  Colman.] 

1764. 

The  Companion  to  the  Play-House  :  or,  An  historical  account  of  all  the 
dramatic  writers  (and  their  works)  that  have  appeared  in  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland,  from  the  Commencement  of  our  theatrical  ex- 
hibitions, down  to  the  present  year,  1764.  Composed  in  the  form  of 
a  dictionary,  for  the  more  readily  turning  to  any  particular  author,  or 
performance.  In  two  volumes.  London :  Printed  for  T.  Becket, 
P.  A.  Dehondt,  C.  Henderson,  and  T.  Davies.  1764.  [By  David  E. 
Baker.] 

1765. 

The  Castle  of  Otranto,  a  Gothic  Story.  Translated  by  William  Marshall, 
Gent.  From  the  original  Italian  of  Onuphrio  Muralto,  Canon  of 
the  Church  of  St.  Nicholas  at  Otrauto.  The  sixth  edition.  Parma. 
Printed  by  Rodoni,  for  J.  Edwards,  Bookseller  of  London.  1791. 
[By  Horace  Walpole.] 

The  Comedies  of  Terence,  Translated  into  Familiar  Blank  Verse.  By 
George  Colman.  The  Second  Edition  revised  and  corrected.  In 
two  volumes.  Printed  for  T.  Becket,  P.  A.  De  Hondt,  and  R.  Bald- 
win.    1768. 

1766. 

The  Earl  of  Warwick,  a  Tragedy,  as  it  is  performed  at  the  Theatre  Royal 
in  Drury  Lane.  London :  printed  for  T.  Davies,  R.  Baldwin,  and 
W.  Griffin.     1766.     [By  Thomas  Francklin.] 

1768. 

The  History  of  King  Lear.  As  it  is  performed  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in 
Covent  Garden.  London.  Printed  for  R.  Baldwin  &  T.  Becket. 
1768.     [Lear,  as  altered  by  George  Colman.] 

1769. 

The  Sister :  a  Comedy.  By  Mrs.  Charlotte  Lennox.  London,  Printed 
for  J.  Dodsley  and  T.  Davies.     1769. 

430 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


1771. 


Timon  of  Athens,  altered  from  Shakespear.  A  Tragedy.  As  it  is  acted 
at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury  Lane.  London  :  printed  for  the  pro- 
prietors of  Shakespear 's  works.     1771.     [By  Richard  Cumberland.] 

1773. 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer :  or,  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night.  A  Comedy.  As 
it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  iu  Covent-Garden.  Written  by 
Doctor  Goldsmith.     London :  Printed  for  F.  Newbery.     1773. 

1774. 

Cursory  Remarks  on  Tragedy,  on  Shakespear,  and  on  certain  French  and 
Italian  Poets,  principally  Tragedians.  London  :  printed  for  W.  Owen. 
1774.     [By  Edward  Taylor.] 

Analysis  of  Shakespeare's  Characters.  A  Philosophical  Analysis  and 
Illustration  of  some  of  Shakespeare's  Remarkable  Characters.  By 
William  Richardson,  Esq.  Professor  of  Humanity  in  the  University 
of  Glasgow.  The  second  edition,  corrected.  London  :  Printed  for 
J.  Murray;  and  W.  Creech  at  Edinburgh.  1775.  [Contains  the 
characters  of  Macbeth,  Hamlet,  Jaques,  and  Imogen.] 

1775. 

*  The  Correspondents.    An  Original  Novel  in  a  series  of  Letters.     Lon- 

don, 1775. 
The  Rivals,  a  Comedy.     As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Covent- 
Garden.      London:   Printed  for  John   Wilkie.      1775.      [By   R.    B. 
Sheridan.] 

*  The  Elements  of  Dramatic  Criticism ;  containing  an  analysis  of  the 

stage,  &c.     By  William  Cooke,  Esq  ;  of  the  Middle  Temple.     Lon- 
don, Kearsly,  1775. 

1777. 

Discours  sur  Shakespeare  et  sur  Monsieur  de  Voltaire  par  Joseph  Ba- 
retti,  secretaire  pour  la  correspondence  etrangere  de  l'Academie 
Royale  Britannique.  Londres,  chez  J.  Nourse,  libraire  du  Roi,  et  a 
Paris,  chez  Durand  neveu.     1777. 

Biographia  Literaria  ;  or  a  Biographical  History  of  Literature  :  Contain- 
ing the  Lives  of  English,  Scottish,  and  Irish  Authors,  from  the  dawn 
of  letters  in  these  Kingdoms  to  the  present  time,  chronologically  ami 
classically  arranged.  By  John  Berkcnhout,  M.  D.  Volume  I.  From 
the  beginning  of  the  fifth  to  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Lon- 
don :  Printed  for  J.  Dodsley.  1777.  [Volume  I  was  the  only  one 
published.] 

*  A  new  Translation  of  the  Heauton-timorumcnos  and  Adelphi  of  Terence : 

in  Prose.     Together  with  a  preface,  containing  a  free  enquiry  into 

431 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Mr.  Colman's  arguments  for  translating  the  comedies  of  that  author 
into  blank  verse.     By  a  member  of  the  University  of  Oxford.     Lon- 
don.    Dodsley.     1777. 
An  Essay  on  the  Dramatic  Character  of  Sir  John  Falstaff.    London : 
Printed  for  T.  Davies.     1777.     [By  Maurice  Morgann.] 

1779. 

The  Law  of  Lombardy  ;  a  Tragedy  :  As  it  is  performed  at  the  Theatre- 
Royal  in  Drury-Lane.  Written  by  Robert  Jephson,  Esq.  author  of 
Braganza.    London.    Printed  for  T.  Evans.     1779. 

1780. 
Zoraida :  a  Tragedy.     As  it  is  acted  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury-Lane. 
To  which  is  added  a  postscript,  containing  observations  on  Tragedy. 
London  :  Printed  for  G.  Kearsly.     1780.    [By  William  Hodson.] 

1781. 

*  Nathan  the  Wise.  A  Philosophic  Drama.  From  the  German  of  G.  E. 
Lessing,  late  Librarian  to  the  Duke  of  Brunswick.  Translated  into 
English  by  R.  E.  Raspe.    London,  Fielding.     1781. 

1782. 

Biographia  Dramatica,  or  a  Companion  to  the  Playhouse,  &c.  By  David 
Erskine  Baker,  Esq.  A  new  edition  :  carefully  corrected,  greatly 
enlarged  ;  and  continued  from  1764  to  1782.  [In  two  volumes.]  Dub- 
lin, 1782.  [An  enlarged  edition  of  the  Companion  to  the  Playhouse, 
1764.] 

1783. 

Dissertations  Moral  and  Critical.  On  Memory  and  Imagination.  On 
Dreaming.  The  Theory  of  Language.  On  Fable  and  Romance.  On 
the  Attachments  of  Kindred.  Illustrations  of  Sublimity.  By  James 
Beattie,  LL.  D.  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  and  Logick  in  the 
Marischal  College  and  University  of  Aberdeen  ;  and  Member  of  the 
Zealand  Society  of  Arts  and  Sciences.  London  :  Printed  for  W. 
Strahan  and  T.  Cadell ;  and  W.  Creech  at  Edinburgh.     1783. 

Q.  Horatii  Flacci  Epistola  ad  Pisones,  de  Arte  Poetica.  The  Art  of 
Poetry:  an  Epistle  to  the  Pisos.  Translated  from  Horace.  With 
notes.     By  George  Colman.     London  :  Printed  for  T.  Cadell.     1783. 

The  Mysterious  Husband.  A  Tragedy  in  Five  Acts.  As  it  is  acted  at 
the  Theatre-Eoyal,  Covent-Garden.  By  Richard  Cumberland,  Esq. 
London  :  Printed  for  C.  Dilly  and  J.  Walter.     1783. 

Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles-Lettres.  By  Hugh  Blair,  D.  D.  One  of 
the  ministers  of  the  High  Church,  and  professor  of  rhetoric  and  belles 
lcttres  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  In  three  volumes.  Dublin. 
1783. 

432 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


1784. 


*  Plays  of  Three  Acts  ;  written  for  a  Private  Theatre.  By  William  Hay- 
ley,  Esq.  London.  Cadell.  1784.  [Among  the  comedies  is  The 
Two  Connoisseurs.] 

Dramatic  Miscellanies  :  consisting  of  critical  observations  on  several  plays 
of  Shakspeare  :  with  a  review  of  his  principal  characters,  and  those  of 
various  eminent  writers,  as  represented  by  Mr.  Garrick,  and  the  cele- 
brated comedians.  With  Anecdotes  of  Dramatic  Poets,  Actors,  &c. 
By  Thomas  Davies,  Author  of  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  David  Garrick, 
Esq.     In  three  volumes.     London.     Printed  for  the  Author.     1784. 

Essays  on  Shakespeare's  Dramatic  Characters  of  Kichard  the  Third, 
King  Lear,  and  Timon  of  Athens.  To  which  are  added,  an  Essay 
on  the  Faults  of  Shakespeare ;  and  additional  observations  on  the 
Character  of  Hamlet.  The  second  edition  :  By  Mr.  Richardson, 
Professor  of  Humanity  in  the  University  of  Glasgow.  London : 
Printed  for  J.  Murray.     1786. 


1785. 

The  Mine  :  a  Dramatic  Poem.  The  second  edition.  To  which  are  added, 
Two  historic  odes.  By  John  Sargent,  Esquire.  London :  Printed 
for  T.  Cadell.     1788. 


1786. 

*The  Disbanded  Officer  ;  or,  The  Baroness  of  Brnchsal :  a  Comedy.  As 
performed  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  the  Haymarket.  Cadell.  Lon- 
don.   1786. 

The  New  Foundling  Hospital  for  Wit.  Being  a  collection  of  Fugitive 
Pieces,  in  Prose  and  Verse,  not  in  any  other  Collection.  With  sev- 
eral pieces  never  before  published.  A  new  edition,  corrected  and 
considerably  enlarged.  In  six  volumes.  London:  Printed  for  J. 
Debrett.     1786.     [Edited  by  J.  Alinon.     This  is  the  second  edition.] 


1789. 

Essays  by  W.  Belsham.  Essays  Philosophical  and  Moral,  Historical  and 
Literary.  By  W.  Belsham.  In  Two  Volumes.  London :  Printed 
for  G.  G  and  J.  Robinson.     1799. 


1790. 

Memoirs  of  His  own  Life,  by  Tate  Wilkinson,  Patentee  of  the  Theatres- 
Royal,  York  and  Hull.  In  four  volumes.  York :  Printed  for  the 
Author.     Anno  1790. 

28  433 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

1792. 

Columbus  :  or,  A  World  Discovered.  An  Historical  Play.  As  it  is  per- 
formed at  the  Theatre-Royal,  Covent-Garden.  By  Thomas  Morton, 
of  the  honourable  society  of  Lincoln 's-Inn.  London:  Printed  for 
W.  Miller.     1792. 

1832. 

Some  Account  of  the  English  Stage  from  the  Restoration  in  1660  to  1830. 
In  ten  volumes.     Bath  :  1832. 
[By  John  Genest.] 

1838. 

The  Correspondence  of  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer,  Bart.  Speaker  of  the  House 
of  Commons.  With  a  memoir  of  his  life.  To  which  are  added  other 
Relicks  of  a  Gentleman's  Family.  Edited  by  Sir  Henry  Bunbury, 
Bart.    London :  Edward  Moxon.     1838. 


434 


INDEX 


INDEX 


In  this  index,  for  the  convenience  of  readers,  the  dates  of 
birth  and  death  of  most  of  the  authors  mentioned  have  been 
given.  When  there  is  any  doubt  in  the  case  of  the  English 
ones,  I  have  followed  the  authority  of  the  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography. 


Addison,  Joseph  [1672-1719],  158, 
190,  272,  274;  his  Cato,  59,  184, 
226,  426 ;  on  bloodshed  in  stage 
representation,  191,  192,  202;  on 
poetic  justice,  406-410 ;  on  rym- 
ing  plays,  217;  oh  tragi-comedy, 
136,  137. 

Adventures  of  Five  Hours,  by 
Sir  Samuel  Tuke,  263,  419. 

jEschylus,  285,  346. 

Agis,  Home's,  349,  429. 

Alcestis,  Euripides',  143. 

Alchemist,  Jonson's,  33. 

All  for  Love,  Dryden's,  70,  95, 
216,  42\  ;  account  of,  97-99. 

Alteration  of  Shakespeare's 
Plats,  to  produce  a  new  play, 
303-306 ;  to  introduce  spectacu- 
lar entertainments,  306-308;  to 
produce  a  happy  ending,  308  ;  to 
introduce  love-scenes,  309-313  ; 
hostility  to,  313-318. 

Ambitious  Stepmother,  Rowe's, 
371,  403,  425. 

Analts  -  of  Shakespeare's 
Characters,  Richardson's,  152, 
431. 

Antigone,  Sophocles',  204. 

Apollonics  Rhodius,  233. 

Apology  for  Poetry,  Sidney's, 
20,  149. 

Aristophanes,  4,  111. 


Aristotle,  226,  235,  247,  249,  282, 
365,  407  ;  his  connection  with  the 
doctrine  of  the  unities,  16,  17, 
20,  49,  250. 

Arne,  Thomas  Augustus  [1710— 
1778],  252. 

Athalie,  Racine's,  243,  251. 

Athelstan,  Brown's,  66,  193,  429. 

Bacon,  Francis  [1561-1626],  340; 

on  love  in  stage-plays,  115. 
Baretti,  Giuseppe  Marc'  Antonio, 

[1719-1789],  64,431. 
Barry,  Lodowick,  38. 
Bartholomew     Fair,     Jonson's, 

180. 
Beattie,   James   [1735-1803],  64, 

432. 
Beaumont,   Francis   [1584-1616], 

34,  35. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  plays 

of,  2,  174,  230,  265;  Rymer  on, 

234,  235,  277,  281,  402.  " 
Belsham,  William  [1752-1827],  65, 

433. 
Bentley,     Richard     [1708-1782], 

208. 
Berenice,  Racine's,  80. 
Berkenhout,  John  [1730?-1791], 

62,  66,  74,  431. 
Betterton,  Thomas  [1635  ?-1710], 

302,  377. 


437 


INDEX 


Biographia    Dramatica,    166  n, 

169  n,  319  n,  432. 
Blackstone,  Sir  William  [1723- 

1780],  388. 
Blair,  Hugh  [1718-1800],  64,  359, 

432 ;  on  Shakespeare,  348. 
Blank   Verse,    in    comedy,   211, 

212;  in   tragedy,   211,    214-216, 

217. 
Bo aden,  James  [1762-1839],  164, 

165. 
Boadicia,  Glover's,  428 ;  account 

of,  200. 
B o i l e a u-D espreaux,  Nicolas 

[1636-1711],  157,408. 
Bolingbroke,  Henry  St.  John,  Vis- 
count  [1678-1751],  43,  131 ;   on 

English  tragedy,  345. 
Booth,  Barton  [1681-1733],  377. 
Booth,  Edwin  [1833-1893],  320. 
Boswell,   James   [1740-1795],   1, 

366. 
Brome,  Richard  [d.  1652],  34,  40. 
Brown,    John     [1715-1766],     his 

tragedy   of   Athelstan,   66,    193, 

429. 
Browning,    Robert    [1812-1889], 

observes  dramatic  unities,  15. 
Brumot,  Pierre  [1688-1742],  192. 
Brutus,  Voltaire's,  245. 
Buckingham,      George     Villiers, 

Duke  of  [1628-1687],  330. 
Buckinghamshire,  John  Sheffield, 

Duke  of  [1648-1721],  alteration 

of  Julius  Caesar,  310;  Essay  on 

Poetry,  310,  422. 
Burnabt  [fl.  1703],  303. 
Byron,     George     Gordon,     Lord 

[1788-1824],  93,  251. 

Caius  Marius,  History  and  Fall 

of,  Otway's,  302,  304,  422 ;  bal- 

conv  scene  in,  324. 
Car,  ctacus,   Mason's,    246,    252, 

255,  429. 
Caroline,  Queen  [1683-1737],  on 

Shakespeare's  women,  371,  372. 


Cartwright,  "William  [1611- 
1643],  297. 

Case  is  Altered,  Jonson's,  25,  26. 

Castle  of  Otranto,  Walpole's, 
144,  430. 

Catiline,  Jonson's,  32,  144,  242. 

Cato,  Addison's,  426 ;  Dennis  on, 
59,  426  ;  Voltaire  on,  184. 

C£nie,  Madame  de  Grafigny's,  198. 

Centlivre,  Mrs.  Susannah  [1667  ?- 
1723],  45,  71,  300,  425,  426. 

Cervantes  Saavedra,  Miguel  de 
[1547? -1616],  282,  289. 

Chapelain,  Jean  [1595-1674],  233. 

Chapman,  George  [1559  ?-1634], 
38. 

Chesterfield,  Philip  Dormer 
Stanhope,  Earl  of  [1694-1773], 
63,  80,  131,  191,  192,  198,  211, 
218,  317,  345,  354,  371,  372. 

Chorus,  the  ancient,  in  modern 
plays,  adopted  by  Milton,  243 ; 
advocated  by  Roscommon,  243  — 
by  Rymer,  243  —  by  Francklin, 
245— by  Hurd,  245,  254— by 
Duucombe,  245 ;  denounced  by 
Dennis,  244  — by  Walpole,  245 
—  by  Colman,  253  —  by  Gray, 
254  ;  Mason's  attempt  to  intro- 
duce it,  246-255. 

Cibber,  Colley  [1761-1757],  195, 
197,  302,  314-317,  319,  323,  424, 
427,  428. 

Cibber,  Theophilus  [1703-1758], 
315. 

Cinthio  (Giovanni  Battista  Gi- 
raldi)  [1504-1573],  290. 

Clarissa,  Richardson's,  410. 

Cleomenes,  Dryden's,  57, 153, 423. 

Cleone,  Dodsley's,  72,  429. 

Cleopatra,  Daniel's,  206,  215; 
account  of,  24. 

Cleveland,  John  [1613-1658],  34. 

Clive,  Mrs.  Catharine  [1711- 
1785],  207,  428. 

Cobbett,  William  [1762-1835], 
361. 


438 


INDEX 


Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  [1772- 
1834],  388. 

Colman,  George  [1732-1794],  68, 
89,  139,  174,  212,  218,  252,  253, 
321,  364,  365,  394,  432  ;  his  alter- 
ation of  Lear,  309,  312,  430 ;  his 
translation  of  Terence,  213,  214, 
430. 

Columbus,  Morton's,  73,  434. 

Conic  Drama  of  the  Restora- 
tion, 257-259. 

Comical  Gallant,  Dennis',  303, 
358,  425. 

Companion  to  the  Plathouse, 
319,  430,  432. 

Complete  Art  of  Poetrt,  Gil- 
don's,  275,  426. 

Congreve,  William  [1670-1729], 
121,  158,  269,  273,  339  n,  424. 

Conquest  of  Granada,  Dryden's, 
344,  357,  420. 

Conquest  of  Mexico,  Dryden's, 
233,  419. 

Cooke,  Thomas  [1703-1756],  409, 
427. 

Cooke,  William  [fl.  1775],  62,  431. 

Corneille,  Pierre  [1606-1684],  76, 
80,  92,  224,  267,  300,  346,  359, 
366. 

Correspondents,  The,  373,  431. 

Coventry,  Francis  [fl.  1751], 
227  n. 

Cowley,  Abraham  [1618-1667], 
229. 

Cowper,  William  [1731-1800],  212. 

Cromwell,  Victor  Hugo's,  14. 

Crowne,  John  [/.  1665-1698], 
357 ;  his  alterations  of  Shake- 
speare, 302,  309,  368,  422;  on 
Shakespeare,  345. 

CuMiiEiii.AND,  Richard  [1732- 
1811],  his  alteration  of  Timon, 
311,  318;  the  Mysterious  Hus- 
band of,  157,  220,  432;  on  Shake- 
speare, 346. 

Cursory  Remarks  on  Shake- 
speare, Taylor's,  167,  431. 


Dacier,  Andre'  [1651-1722],  252. 

Daniel,  Samuel  [1552-1619],  24, 
25,  206,  215. 

D'Arblay,  Frances  (Burner) 
[1752-1840],  360. 

D'Avenant,  Sir  William  [1606- 
1668],  229,  263,  330;  alteration 
of  Macbeth,  302,  303,  307,  421  ; 
of  The  Tempest,  287,  302,  305, 
420 ;  his  Law  against  Lovers, 
302,  304,  307,  420. 

Davideis,  Cowley's,  229. 

Davies,  Thomas  [17127-1785], 
164,   165,  312,  433. 

Dekker,  Thomas  [1570?-1640?], 
39. 

Delany,  Mrs.  Mary  [1700-1788], 
199. 

Denham,  Sir  John  [1615-1669],  2. 

Dennis,  John  [1657-1734],  225, 
239,  283,  286,  288,  329,  345,  361, 
409,  423,  424,  425,  426;  account 
of,  271-275;  on  Addison's  Cato, 
59,  426  ;  alteration  of  Coriolanus, 
195,  301,  403,  411,  427  ;  of  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor,  303,  358,  425  ; 
on  the  chorus,  244,  284;  on 
poetic  justice,  403,  404,  407, 
40S  ;  on  tragi-comedy,  137,  159; 
on  the  unities,  58-60. 

Dialogues  of  the  Dead,  Lyttel- 
ton's,  156,  429. 

Disbanded  Officer,  The,  89,  433. 

Dissertations,  Moral  and  Crit- 
ical, Beattie's,  64,  432. 

Dissertation  on  Ancient  Trag- 
edy, Francklin's,  245. 

Distrest  Mother,  Philip's,  67, 
426. 

Dodington,  Bubb,  see  Melcombe. 

Dodsley,  Robert  [1703-1764],  72, 
429. 

Domestic  Tragedy,  222. 

Don  Sebastian,  Dryden's,  57,  153, 
402,  423. 

Dorset,  Charles  Sackville,  Karl  of 
[1638-1706],  282. 


439 


INDEX 


Douglas,  Home's,  429 ;  Scotch 
opinion  of,  349,  350. 

Downes,  John  \Ji.  1662-1710], 
303,  425. 

Dramatic  Miscellanies,  Davies', 
164,  312,  433. 

Drummoxd,  William,  of  Hawthorn- 
den  [1585-1649],  1,  4,  5. 

Dkyden,  John  [1631-1700],  70, 
136,  137,  151,  153,  197,  216,  240, 
241,  258,  265,  268,  273,  283,  309, 
330,  339,  347,  357,  363,  376,  422, 
423  ;  his  All  for  Love,  95,  97-99 ; 
his  alteration  of  the  Tempest, 
287,  302,  305,  420  ;  of  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  301,  302,  421  ;  on  poetic 
justice,  402,  405 ;  his  relations 
with  Rymer,  232,  233,  283,  285  ; 
on  Shakespeare,  269,  271,  283, 
340,  344,  355 ;  on  tragi-comedy, 
135,  136,  159  ;  on  the  unities,  42, 
47,  48,  56,  57. 

Duffett,  Thomas  [fl.  1675],  his 
Mock-Tempest,  302,  306,  421. 

Duke  of  Guise,  Dryden  and 
Lee's,  57,  422. 

Duke  of  Lerma,  Sir  Robert  How- 
ard's, 47,  420. 

Dunciad,  Pope's,  275,  316. 

Duxcombe,  William  [1690-1769], 
245,  427. 

Durfey,  Thomas  [1653-1723], 
his  alteration  of  Cymbeline,  194, 
302,  368,  422. 

Earl  of  Warwick,  Francklin's. 
45,  68,  430. 

Eastward  Ho,  Chapman,  Jonson 
and  Marston's,  38. 

Edgar,  Rymer 's,  277,  285,  421  ; 
account  of,  239-241. 

Electra,  Sophocles',  139,  244. 

Elements  of  Criticism,  Karnes', 
51,  430. 

Elements  of  Dramatic  Criti- 
cism, Cooke's,  62,  431. 

Elfrid,  Hill's,  71,  426. 


Elfrida,  Mason's,  248,  252,  254, 
255,  428. 

Elmerick,  Lillo's,  219,  427. 

English,  their  reputation  for  cru- 
elty, 201-203. 

Epicene,  Jonson's,  33. 

Epilogue,  in  English  plays,  44. 

Ernani,  Victor  Hugo's,  100. 

Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,  Dry- 
den's,  135,  265,  420. 

Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Writ- 
ings of  Shakespeare,  Dennis', 
403,  407,  426. 

Essay  on  Falstaff,  Morgann's, 
376,  432. 

Esther,  Racine's,  243,  251. 

Eugenia,  Francis's,  139  n,  197, 
198,  428. 

Euripides,  139,  143,  244,  286,  346, 
366. 

Evelyn,  John  [1620-1706],  293. 

Evert  Man  in  his  Humor,  Jon- 
son's, 19,  313;  examined,  123- 
125  ,  observance  of  unities  in,  27, 
28,  103. 

Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor, 
Jonson's,  103;  observance  of 
unities  in,  29-31,  32,  33. 

Fairy  Queen,  The,  302. 

Falkener,  Sir  Everard  [1684- 
1758],  190. 

Fall  of  Mortimer,  Jonson's.  32. 

Farquhar,  George  [1678-1 707],  on 
the  dramatic  unities,  49,  56,  90, 
104,  425. 

Feltham,  Owen  [1602?-1668],  35. 

Female  Characters  in  Shake- 
speare, 369-375. 

Female  Quixote,  Mrs.  Lennox's, 
289. 

Fielding,  Henry  [1707- 1754],  427; 
on  Cibber's  alterations,  314  ;  on 
the  dramatic  unities,  50,  51,  90. 

Fletcher,  John  [1579-1625],  .2, 
174,  297,  348  :  popularity  during 
Restoration  period,  42,  262,  265- 


440 


INDEX 


267,  277,  381  ;   his  Sea   Voyage 

contrasted    with    the    Tempest, 

391. 
Florio,  John  [15537-1625],  12. 
Fcedera,  Rymer's,  227. 
Foote,   Samuel  [1720-1777],  428  ; 

on  the  dramatic  unities,  50. 
Fox,   Charles  James  [1749-1806], 

on  Hamlet,  347. 
Francis,  Philip  [17087-1773],  139, 

198,  428. 
Francklin,  Thomas  [1721-1784], 

45,  68,  245,  430. 
French   Academy,   41,   65,     168, 

169,  359. 
Fuller,  Thomas  [1608-1661],  103. 

Gamester,  Moore's,  219,  428. 

Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  23. 

Garrick,  David  [1717-1779],  45, 
66,  193,  199,  200,  318,  346,363, 
380,  381 ;  his  alteration  of  Ham- 
let, 161-173;  his  Lear,  312, 
313,  321. 

Gentleman's  Journal,  Mot- 
teux's,  282,  423. 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  [11007- 
1154],  406. 

George  Barnwell,  Lillo's,  218, 
427. 

George  III.  on  Shakespeare, 
360. 

Gifford,  William  [1756-1826], 
27  n. 

Gildon,  Charles  [1665-1724],  238, 
270,  271,  272,  329,  340,  358,  370, 
423,  424,  426;  account  of,  275, 
287  ;  his  alteration  of  Measure 
for  Measure,  303,  307,  425 ;  on 
poetic  justice,  408 ;  relations 
with  Rymer,  285,  286  ;  on  Shake- 
speare, 229,  286,  287,  360,  361; 
on  tragi-comedy,  136,  137. 

Gi.asse,  George  Henry  [1761- 
1809],  246. 

Glover,  Richard  [1712-1785],  200, 
428. 


Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang  von 
[1749-1832],  on  the  dramatic 
unities,  93. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver  [1728-1774], 
51,  125,360,431  ;  on  Shakespeare, 
346-348. 

Gondibert,  D'Avenant's,  229. 

Gorboduc,  Sackville  and  Nor- 
ton's, 20. 

Grafigny,  Madame  de  [1695- 
1758],  198. 

Gravediggers'  scene  in  Ham- 
let, 106,  141-143,  154,  162,  164, 
166,  169. 

Gray,  Thomas  [1716-1771],  208, 
246,  247  ;  on  the  chorus,  253,  254. 

Greene,  Rohert  [1560  7-1592],  22, 
385. 

Hallam,  Henry  [1777-1859],  231. 
Hamijurgisciie      Dramaturgie, 

Lessing's,  75,  87. 
Hanmer,  Sir  Thomas  [1677-1746], 

60  n. 
Hakdy,  Sir  Thomas  Duffus  [1804- 

1878],  227  n. 
Hawkesworth,      John      [17157- 

1773],  his  alteration  of  Oronooko, 

158,429. 
Hawkins,    William     [1722-1801], 

his     alteration     of     Cvmbeline, 

317,  429. 
Hayley,  William  [1745-1820],  211, 

218,  246,  432. 
Henslow,  Philip  [d.  1616],  26,  27. 
Higgons,  Bevil  [1670-1735],  331. 
Hill,  Aaron  [1685-1750],  71,  426. 
Historical   Register    for    the 

Year  1736,  Fielding's,  314,  427. 
Histriomastix,  Dekker's,  39. 
Hoadley,  John   [1711-1776],  164, 

166;    his    additions  to    Hamlet, 

171. 
Hodson,  William    [Jl.   1780],  63  n, 

431. 
Home,  John  [1722-1808],  his  Agis, 

349,  429 ;  his  Douglas,  350,  429. 


441 


INDEX 


Homer,  Pope's  and  Tickell's  trans- 
lation of,  276. 
Horace,  54,  55,  245,  253,  254,  282, 

422,  428. 
Howard,  Hon.  James    \_fl.   1662- 

1674],  303,  309. 
Howard,  Sir  Robert   [1626-1698], 

419,  420 ;  on  tragi-comedy,  137 ; 

on  the  unities,  47,  48. 
Hughes,  John  [1677-1720],  381. 
Hugo,  Victor  Marie  [1802-1885], 

14,  100. 
Hume,     David     [1711-1776],    64, 

131  ;  on  Home's    Douglas,  350  ; 

on  Shakespeare,  352,  353. 
HUNTER,  Joseph  [1783-1861],  394. 
Hurd,  Richard   [1720-1808],  254, 

428 ;  on  the  chorus,  245,  254. 

Iliad,  translations  of  the,  275. 

Impartial  Critic,  Dennis',  284, 
423. 

Ingratitude  of  a  Common- 
wealth, Tate's,  302,  422. 

Injured  Princess,  Durfey's,  302, 
422. 

Inquiry,  etc.,  Goldsmith's,  346. 

Interlocking  of  scenes,  256. 

Invader  of  his  Country,  Den- 
nis', 195,  301,  403,  427. 

Invincible  Armado,  Rymer's, 
285. 

Iphigenia,  Dennis',  58,  272,  425. 

Iphigenia  in  Tauris,  Euripides', 
139. 

Iphigenie,  Goethe's,  94. 

Irving,  Henry  [1838-  ],  320. 

Jane  Shore,  Rowe's,  362,  426. 
Jeffrey,  Francis  [1773-1850],  59, 

93. 
Jephson,  Robert  [1736-1803],  69, 

432. 
Jeronimo,  Kyd's,  180,  181. 
Jew  of  Venice,  Lansdowne's,  302, 

425  ;  account  of,  329-338. 
Johnson,  Samuel  [1709-1784],  64, 


75,  192,  290,  291,  366,  389,  390; 
on  poetic  justice,  410;  on  tragi- 
comedy, 137,  156,  157,  162;  on 
the  dramatic  unities,  54,  55,  62, 
70,  87,  90,  91,  101,  102,  104,  130. 

Jonson,  Benjamin  [15731—1637],  1, 
2,  3,4,  8,  15,40,47,  119,144,  174, 
180,  181,  184,  256,  262,  264,  267, 
296,  340,  348,  353,  364,  381,  382, 
385  ;  on  the  chorus,  242  ;  Every 
Man  in  his  Humor  examined, 
123-125;  on  the  unities,  19,  22; 
23,  25-40,  102;  his  Vol  pone  ex- 
amined, 82-86. 

Junius  Brutus,  Duncombe's,  245, 
427. 

Kames,  Henry  Home,  Lord  [1696- 

1782],  62,  430;  on  the  dramatic 

unities,  51-54. 
Kean,  Edmund  [1787-1833],  309. 
Keate,  George  [1729-1797],  365. 
Kemble,    John    [1758-1822],    72, 

173. 
Kenrick,   William  [17257-1779], 

66  n. 

Lacy  (Lacey),  John  [d.  1681],  302, 

368,  424. 
La  Motte,  Antoine   Houdart  de 

[1672-1731],  42. 
Lansdowne,     George     Granville, 

Lord  [1667-1735],  his  alteration 

of  Merchant  of  Venice,  302,  319, 

425 ;    compared    with     original, 

328-338. 
La  Place,      Pierre     Antoine    de 

[1707-1793],  80,  203,  428. 
Law    against    Lovers,     D'Ave- 

nant's,  302,  304,  307,  420. 
Law  of  Lombardy,  Jephson's,  69, 

432. 
Lee,   Nathaniel   [1653?-1692],  57, 

422. 

Leir,  King,  406. — = ~~~ 

Le   Moyne,    Pierre    [1602-1671], 

233. 


442 


INDEX 


Lennox,  Mrs.  Charlotte  [1720- 
1804],  192,  429,  430  ;  account  of, 
289,  292. 

Leonidas,  Glover's,  200. 

Lessing,  Gotthold  Ephraim  [1729- 
1781],  75,  76,  82,  120,  366,  384, 
432  [433]  ;  English  estimate  of, 
87-90;  on  the  unities,  53, 77-81 ,  90. 

Le  Tourneur,  Pierre  [1736-1788], 
168,  374. 

Lillo,  George  [1693-1739],  218, 
219,  220,  427. 

Little  French  Lawyer,  Fletch- 
er's, 174. 

Lloyd,  Robert  [1733-1764],  212, 
213. 

Lope  de  Vega  [1562-1635],  43. 

Love,  in  the  ancient  and  the  mod- 
ern drama,  110-114;  intrudes 
into  tragedy,  116,  129,223;  dif- 
ficulty of  its  treatment  while  ob- 
serving the  unities,  120-128  ;  not 
distinction  between  the  classical 
and  romantic  dramas,  223-226  ; 
prominent  in  alterations  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  309-313. 

Love  Betrayed,  Burnaby's,  303. 

Love  for  Love,  Congreve's,  121, 
424. 

Love's  Contrivance,  Mrs.  Cent- 
livre's,  300,  425. 

Love's  Victim,  Gildon's,  371,  425. 

Lyly,  John  [15547-1606],  22. 

Lyons  Mail,  Reade's,  320. 

Lyttelton,  George,  Lord  [1709— 
1773],  156,  373,  429. 

Macailay,   Thomas     Babington, 

Lord  [1800-1859],  227. 
Macklin,    Charles     [16971-1797], 

319. 
Macready,  William  Charles  [1793- 

1873],  319,  321. 
Ma  dan,     Mrs.    Judith    (Cowper) 

[1702-1781],  363. 
Maid  of  Honor,  Massinger's,  72, 

73. 


Maid's  Tragedy,  Beaumont  and 

Fletcher's,  230. 
Maiden     Queen    (Secret    Love), 

Dryden's,  42,  56,  420. 
Malone,     Edmund    [1741-1812], 

27  n,  101. 
Marini  (or  Marino),  Giambattista 

[1569-1625],  233. 
Marlowe,      Christopher      [1564- 

1593],  22,  216. 
Marmoxtel,  Jean  Francois  [1723- 

1799],  168. 
Marston,  John  [15757-1634],  38. 
Mason,  William  [1724-1797],  169, 

428,429;  his  attempt  to  restore 

the  chorus,  246-255. 
Massinger,  Philip  [1583-1640],  72, 

73,  174,  212. 
Mayne,  Jasper  [1604-1672],  35. 
Melcombe,  George  Bubb  Doding- 

ton,  Lord  [1691-1762],  208. 
Menjechmi,  Plautus',  108,  118. 
Meres,   Francis    [1565-1647],   26, 

184. 
Milton,    John     [1608-1674],    41, 

208,  230,  272,  342,  420;    on  the 

degradation  of  tragedy, 143-145  ; 

introduces  the  chorus,  243,  246, 

251  ;  on  Shakespeare,  2. 
Mine,  Sargent's,  246,  433. 
Minna  von  Barnuelm,  Lessing's, 

89  [433]. 
Mock  Marriage,  Scott's,  58,  424. 
Moliere,  Jean  Baptiste  Poquelin 

[1622-1673],  92,  300. 
Monhoddo,  James  Burnett,  Lord 

[1714-1799],  350. 
Montagu,   Mrs.   Elizabeth  [1720- 

1800],  340. 
Monte8QUIku[1689-1755],371,372. 
Moore,  Edward  [1712-1757],  219. 

220,  428. 
Moke,  Hannah  [1745-1833],  350. 
Mono  an,  McNamara  [d.  1762],  72, 

429. 
Morgann,    Maurice    [1726-1802], 

376,  431. 


443 


INDEX 


Morton,  Thomas  [17641-1838],  73, 
434. 

Motteux,  Peter  Anthony  [1660- 
1718],  282,  423. 

Mdrphy,  Arthur  [1727-1805],  192, 
200. 

Muses'  Looking-glass,  Ran- 
dolph's,  23. 

Mysterious  Husband,  Cumber- 
land's, 157,  220,  432. 

Nathan    deb   Weisk,    Lessing's, 

88,  432. 
New  Foundling  Hospital  for 

Wit,  167  n,  433. 
Non-Jueob,  Cibber's,  316,  427. 
Northern  Lass,  Broome's,  40. 

Observations  on  Hamlet,   141, 

428. 
CEdipe,  Voltaire's,  42,  225,  252. 
Oronooko,  Southerne's,  139,424; 

altered    by   Hawkesworth,    158, 

429. 
Orrery,    John    Boyle,    Earl    of 

[1707-1762],  192,  290. 
Otway,  Thomas  [1652-1685],  347, 

350,  370 ;  his  use  of  Romeo  and 

Juliet,  302,  304,  324. 

Papal    Tyranny,    etc.,    Cibber's, 

314,  316,  428. 
Paradise  Lost,  Milton's,  Dennis 

on,  272  ;  Rymer  on,  229. 
Peele,  George  [1558-1597],  22. 
Pepys,  Samuel  [1633-1703],  307; 

on  the  English  theatre,  260,  261 ; 

on  Shakespeare,  263. 
Pers.e,  iEschylus',  285. 
Perplexed    Lovers,   Mrs.   Cent- 

livre's,  45,  426. 
Phaeton,  Gildon's,  408,  424. 
Phelps,  Samuel  [1804-1878],  308, 

320,  321. 
Philaster,  Beaumont  and  Fletch- 
er's, Colman's  alteration  of,  139, 

364,  430. 


Philips,  Ambrose  [1675  1-1 749], 
67,  426;  his  Pastorals,  276. 

Phillips,  Edward  [1630-1696?], 
342,  421. 

Philoclea,  Morgan's,  72,  429. 

Philoctetes,  Sophocles',  204. 

Philotas,  Daniel's,  25,  215. 

Phipps,  Hon.  Henry  [1755-1831], 
73  n. 

Plautub,  4,  108,  111,  112,  117, 
118,  213. 

Plot  and  no  Plot,  Dennis',  58, 
424. 

Poetaster,  Jonson's,  39. 

Poetic  justice,  doctrine  of,  222, 
308,  401-417. 

Pompey  the  Little,  Coventry's, 
227  n. 

Pope,  Alexander  [1688-1744],  3, 
59,  157,  192,  231,  240,  271, 
275,  276,  287,  316;  on  Shake- 
speare's repute,  377,  378. 

Progress  of  Poesy,  Mrs.  Mad- 
an's,  363. 

Prologue,  in  English  plays,  44. 

Promos  and  Cassandra,  Whet- 
stone's, 18,  19,  102,  215. 

Prose  in  tragedy,  212,  218-220; 
in  comedy,  211. 

Quintilian,  283. 

Rabelais,  Francois  [1495  ?-l 553], 

282. 
Racine,  Jean  Baptiste  [1 639-1 699], 

67,  76,  80,  92,  224,  249,  300,  346, 

349,  366  ;  introduces  the  chorus, 

243,  251. 
Raleigh,  Sir  Walter  [1552  1-1618], 

340. 
Ram  Alley,  Barry's,  38. 
Rambler,  Johnson's,  54,  137. 
Randolph,  Thomas   [1605-1635], 

23. 
Rapin,  Rene  [1621-1687],  229,  233 ; 

on  English   fondness   for  blood, 

201 ;  on  love  in  tragedy,  224. 


444 


INDEX 


Raspe,  Rudolf  Eric  [1737-1794], 

88,  432. 
Ravenscroft,  Edward  [Ji.  1671- 
1697],    his    alteration    of    Titus 
Andronicus,  196,  300,  302,  422. 
Reade,  Charles  [1814-1884],  320. 

Reed,  Isaac  [1742-1807],  166,  169, 
172. 

Rehearsal,  Mrs.  Clive's,  207,  428. 

Remarks  on  Hamlet,  60,  427. 

Riccoboni,  Lodovico  [1677-1753], 
203. 

Richardson,  Samuel  [1689-1761], 
410. 

Richardson,  William  [1743-1814], 
64,  431,  433;  on  Shakespeare, 
152;  on  Shakespeare  female 
characters,  374,  375. 

Rivals,  Sheridan's,  121,  430. 

Rochester,  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of 
[1648-1680],  330. 

Rogers,  Samuel  [Ji.  1764],  364. 

Rollo  (The  Bloody  Brother), 
Fletcher's,  402. 

Romano,  Giulio  (Pippi)  [1492- 
1546],  106. 

Rome  Sauvee,  Voltaire's,  147,  225. 

Roscommon,  Wentworth  Dillon, 
Earl  of  [1633  1-1685],  191,422; 
on  the  chorus,  243,  244. 

Ro3cius  Anglicanus,  Downes's, 
303,  425. 

Rowe,  Nicholas  [1674-1718],  286, 
287,  358,  362,  369,  425,  426 ;  on 
Shakespeare's  female  characters, 
371 ;  on  poetic  justice,  403. 

Rtme,  attempt  to  discard  from 
English  verse,  7  ;  in  comedy  and 
tragedy,  211,  216,  217. 

Rtmer,  Thomas  [1641-1713],  202, 
204,  225,  271,  272,  275,  290,  360, 
370,  403,  421,  423;  account  of, 
227-233;  on  the  chorus,  243; 
his  critical  views,  234-239,  241 ; 
his  Edgar,  239-241,  421;  on 
poetic  justice,  402,  407  ;  on  Shake- 
speare, 276-286,  288,  343. 


St.  Evremond  [1613-1703],  267, 
283,  423  ;  on  the  English  theatre, 
189,  190,  203. 

St.  James's  Magazine,  208,  213. 

Samson  Agonistes,  Milton's,  41, 
143,  243,  420. 

Sargent,  John  [Ji.  1788],  246,  433. 

Sawney  the  Scot,  Lacy's,  302, 
368,  424. 

School  of  Compliment,  Shir- 
ley's, 264,  419. 

Scornful  Lady,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's,  174. 

Scott,  Thomas  [Ji.  1696],  58,  424. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter  [1771-1832], 
231,  239 ;  on  the  dramatic  unities, 
70,  97. 

Sea  Voyage,  Fletcher's,  205  ;  com- 
pared with  the  Tempest,  391. 

Secret  Love,  or  the  Maiden 
Queen,  Dryden's,  42,  420. 

Sedley,  Sir  Charles  [1639  7-1701], 
135,  136,  345,  368. 

Sejands,  JoDson's,  31,  144,  242. 

Selden,  John  [1584-1654],  34. 

Selimus,  187,  215. 

Semiramis,  Voltaire's,  225. 

Seneca,  23,  24. 

Shadwell,  Thomas  [1642  ?-l  692], 
420;  his  alterations  of  Shake- 
speare's plays,  302,  310,  330 ;  on 
the  unities,  46. 

Shakesi-kare,  William  [1564- 
1616],  Estimate  of,  by  Blair,  348 

—  by  Chesterfield,  345,  354  —  by 
Cobbett,  361— by   Colmau,  364 

—  by  Crowne,  345,  357  —  by 
Cumberland,  346  —  by  Dennis, 
284,  286,  345,  358,  361  —  by 
Dryden,  344  — by  Fox,  347  — 
by  George  III.,  360  — by  Gildon, 
285-288,  345,  361— by  Gold- 
smith, 346-348  — by  Hume,  349, 
351-353  — by  Keate,  36.")  — by 
Mrs.  Lennox,  289-292  —  by  Mrs. 
Madan,  363  — by  Rogers,  364  — 
by  Rowe,  362  —  by  Ryiner,  276- 


445 


INDEX 


284,  343  — by  J.  Warton,  345; 
his  fondness  for  quibbles,  147, 
386  ;  his  indifference  to  anachro- 
nisms, 385 ;  his  plays  plundered 
without  acknowledgment,  368; 
his 

All's  Well  that  Ends 
Well,  revived  by  Giffard, 
388;  plot  considered,  389- 
391. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  de- 
scribed, 95-97. 

As  Yod  Like  It,  369;  Dr. 
Johnson  on,  411. 

Comedy  of  Errors,  108,  118. 

Coriolanus,  altered  by  Tate, 
195, 300, 302, 422  ;  by  Dennis, 
159,  195,  301,  427  ;  criticised 
by  Dennis,  403,  411  ;  obser- 
vation of  poetic  justice  in, 
403. 

Cymbeline,  312;  altered  by 
Durfey,  194,  302,  368,  422; 
altered  by  Hawkins,  317, 
429. 

Hamlet,  60,  107  n,  293,  314, 
384 ;  alteration  of,  by  Gar- 
rick,  161-173,  314;  Charles 
James  Fox  on,  347 ;  Pepys 
on,  263 ;  unities  disregarded 
in,  13. 

Henry  IV.,  altered  by  Bet- 
terton,  302 ;  borrowed  from 
by  Cibber,  323;  Pepys  on, 
263. 

Henry  V.,  defence  of  roman- 
tic drama  in,  103-105. 

Henry  VI.,  altered  by  Crowne, 
302,  309,  357,  368,  422. 

John,  King,  alteration  of,  by 
Cibber,  314,  317,428. 

Julius  Gesar,  147,  373;  al- 
tered by  Duke  of  Bucking- 
hamshire, 310;  criticised  by 
Rymer,  278,  279. 

Lear,  King,  187,  236;  its  re- 
lation to  poetic  justice,  405- 


446 


415 ;  Tate's  alteration  of, 
139,  194,  300,  302,  309,  313, 
319,  409,  422  —  described, 
325-328  —  condemned  by 
Addison,  406  —  approved  by 
Dennis,  407,  by  Gildon,  408, 
by  Dr.  Johnson,  410  —  his 
introduction  of  love-scenes 
into,  117,  311-313  ;  Colman's 
alteration  of,  309,  312,  430 ; 
revival  of  original  by  Mac- 
ready,  321  —  by  Phelps,  321 ; 
unities  disregarded  in,  13. 

Love's  Labor  's  Lost,  unities 
in,  100  n,  101  n. 

Macbeth,  373;  art  of,  188, 
235 ;  D'Avenant,  alteration 
of,  302,  303,  307,  421 ;  Gildon 
on,  270 ;  Pepys  on,  263,  307  ; 
poetic  justice  observed  in, 
415-418;  revival  of  original 
by  Phelps,  308 ;  unities  dis- 
regarded in,  13. 

Measure  for  Measure,  214  ; 
alteration  of,  by  D'Avenant, 
302, 304,  307,  420 ;  alteration 
of,  by  Gildon,  288,  303,  307, 
424. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  Lans- 
downe's  alteration  of,  302, 
319,  425  — described,  328- 
333  —  compared  with  origi- 
nal, 333-338;  Macklin's  res- 
toration of  original  to  stage, 
319. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
123,  214,  222,  369;  altera- 
tion of,  by  Dennis,  303,  358, 
425. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
altered  into  an  opera,  302; 
Pepys  ou,  263. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 
214 ;  borrowed  from,  by 
D'Avenant,  304. 

Othello,  373;  art  of,  188; 
early    popularity    of,    281 ; 


INDEX 


never  altered,  162;  Pepys 
on,  263 ;  Rymer  on,  277  - 
281,  290,  360;  unities  disre- 
garded in,  13. 

Pericles,  242. 

Richard  II.,  Tate's  alteration 
of,  302,  422;  reasons  given 
for  alterations,  159,  241. 

Richard  III.,  235;  Gibber's 
alteration  of,  302,  314,  319, 
424  —  character  of  alteration, 
195,  323;  revival  of  orig- 
inal by  Macready,  319  —  by 
Phelps,  320—  by  Irving,  320 
—  by  Booth,  320. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  312;  al- 
tered into  tragi-comedy  by 
Howard,  303,  309;  Gildon 
on,  360;  Lessing  on,  120; 
Pepys  on,  263 ;  use  of  by 
Otway,  302,  304,  422  — his 
version  of  balcony  scene 
compared  with  original,  324. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew,  222; 
alteration  of,  by  Lacy,  302, 
368,  424 ;  Pepys  on,  263  ; 
comparison  of,  with  Fletch- 
er's Woman's  Prize,  266. 

Tempest,  345,  369  ;  alteration 
of,  by  D'Avenant  and  Dry- 
den,  287,  302,  420  —  its  char- 
acter, 305  ;  alteration  of,  by 
Duffett,  302,  306,  421 ;  con- 
verted into  an  opera  by 
Shadwell,  302;  its  art,  con- 
trasted with  Fletcher's  Sea 
Voyage,  391 ;  observance  of 
unities  in,  108-110,  126-128. 

TlMON,  alteration  of  by  Shad- 
well,   302,  310,  421  ;    altera 
tion    by    Cumberland,    311, 
318,  431. 

Titus  Andronicus,  180;  al- 
teration of,  by  Kavenscroft, 
196,  300,  302,  422  ;  its  char- 
acter, 184-186;  its  genuine- 
ness, 184. 


Troilus  and  Cressida,  340 
Uryden's  alteration  of,  301 
302,  405,  421. 
Twelfth    Night,    24,    369 
Burnaby's  alteration  of,  303 
Pepys  on,  263. 
Winter's    Tale,    108,    242 
disregard    of    rules   in,    22 
105-107,  110. 
Shakespeare  Illustrated,  Mrs. 

Lennox's,  429  ;  described,  290. 
Shakespeare's  Dramatic  Char- 
acters, Richardson's,  152,  374, 
433. 
She   Stoops   to  Conquer,  Gold- 
smith's, 125,  431. 
Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley  [1751- 

1816],  121,  431. 
Shirley,  James  [1596-1666],  262, 

264  [419]. 
Short      View      of      Tragedy, 

Rymer's,  277-284,  423. 
Sicilian   Usurper,   Tate's,    302, 

422. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip  [1554-1586],  7, 
104,  340;  on  tragi-comedy,  149; 
on  the  dramatic  unities,  20. 
Silent  Woman,  Jonsou's,  174. 
Sister,  Mrs.  Lennox's,  291,  430. 
Smith,  Adam  [1723-1790],  350. 
Sofonisba,  Trissino's,  17. 

SOLIMAN  AND  PeRSEDA,  182. 

Sophocles,  139,  286,  346,  349,  366  ; 

chorus  in,  244. 
Southerne,  Thomas  [1660-1746], 

158,  424,  429. 
Spanish  Curate,  Fletcher's,  174. 
Spanish     Friar,    Dryden's,    139, 

159  n,  422. 
Spanish     Tragedy,    Kyd's,     182, 

184,  185,  186;  character  of,  181. 
'Si'aragus  Garden,  Broome's,  40. 
Spknce,  Joseph  [1699-1768],  231, 

271,  349. 
Spenser,    Edmund   [1552  7-1599], 

7,  24,  229,  340. 
Statius,  233. 


417 


INDEX 


Steele,  Sir  Richard  [1672-1729], 
on  the  dramatic  unities,  67. 

Steevens,  George  [1736-1800], 
101,  166;  encourages  Garrick  in 
altering  Hamlet,  162,  163. 

Sullen  Lovers,  Shadwell's,  46, 
420. 

Swift,  Jonathan  [1667-1745],  192. 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 
[1837-],  123,  124. 

Tasso,  Torquato  [1544-1595],  233. 
Tate,   Nahum    [1652-1715],    330; 

his  alteration  of  Coriolanus,  195, 

300,  302,  422  ;  of  Lear,  139,  194, 

300,  302,  319,  325-328,  406,  409, 

411,   422;    of  Kichard   II.,    159, 

241,  302,  422. 
Taylor,   Edward   [d.  1797],  167, 

168,  431. 
Terence,  4,  111,  112,  213,  430. 
Theatrum    Poetarum,    Phillips', 

342,  421. 
Theobald,  Lewis  [1688-1744],  101. 
Theocritus,  276. 
Thomson,  James  [1700-1748],  158. 
Thornton,   Bonnell    [1728-1768], 

212,  213. 
TiCKELL,Thomas  [1686-1740],  276. 
Tom  Jones,  Fielding's,  51. 
Tragedies   of   the    Last    Age, 

Rymer's,  234-239,  277,  281,  421, 

423. 
Trissino,  Giovanni  Giorgio  [1478- 

1550],  17. 
Two  Connoisseurs,  Hayley's,  211, 

432. 
Tyrannic    Love,    Dryden's,    56, 

420. 

Unities,  doctrine  of,  denned,  8-11  ; 
attributed  to  Aristotle,  16;  intro- 
duced into  modern  plays  by  Tris- 
sino, 17  ;  championed  in  England 
bv  Jonson,  22,  25 ;  controversy 
about,  in  Elizabethan  age,  18-25  ; 
controversy  about,  after  the  Res- 


toration, 40-44, 47 ;  decadence  of 
belief  in,  71-74;  views  on,  of 
Dryden,  47,  56  —  of  Sir  Robert 
Howard,  47  —  of  Farquhar,  49  — 
of  Foote,50  — of  Fielding,  51  — 
of  Kames,  51-54  —  of  Dr.  John- 
son, 54-56—  of  Dennis,  57-60  — 
of  Upton,  61— of  Webb,  61  — 
of  Cooke,  62  —  of  Berkenhout,  62 
—  of  Richardson,  64  —  of  Blair, 
64  —  of  Beattie,  64  —  of  Baretti, 
64  — of  Belsham,  65— of  Sir 
Richard  Steele,  67  —  of  Colrnan, 
68  —  of  Jephson,  69  —  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  70  —  of  Lessiug, 
74-82,  87  — of  Byron,  93  — of 
Goethe,  93  —  of  Jeffrey,  93. 

Upton,  John  [1707-1760],  61,  428; 
on  Shakespeare's  female  charac- 
ters, 372. 

Vergil,  233,  246,  276. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Gold- 
smith's, 347. 

Victor,  Benjamin  [d.  1778],  170. 

Volpone,  Jouson's,  33 ;  observance 
of  unities  in,  82-86. 

Voltaire  (Francois  Marie  Ar- 
ouet)  [1694-1778],  19,  62,  65,  75, 
129,  142,  145,  168,  175,  201,  245, 
248,  251,  256,  280,  340,  345,  351, 
365 ;  on  bloodshed  on  the  stage, 
190 ;  on  love  in  tragedy,  225  ;  on 
ryme  in  French  plays,  216;  on 
Shakespeare,  102,  131,  184,  281 ; 
on  tragi-comedy,  147;  on  the 
dramatic  unities,  42,  130;  Lea- 
sing on,  82,  87. 

Waller,  Edmund  [1606-1687], 
330. 

Walpole,  Horace  [1717-1797], 
169,  208,  245,  430;  on  tragi- 
comedy, 144,  156. 

Warton,  Joseph  [1722-1800],  on 
Lear,  394 ;  on  love  in  tragedy, 
226 ;  on  Shakespeare,  345. 


448 


INDEX 


"Webb,  Daniel  [ft.  17C2],  61,  4.30. 

Whetstone,  George  [1544?- 
1587?],  20,  102,  215;  on  tragi- 
comedy, 149;  on  the  unities,  18, 
19. 

White,  Richard  Grant  [1821- 
1885],  100. 

WiELAND.Christoph  Martin  [1733- 
1813],  76. 

Wild  Gallant,  Dryden's,  197, 
258,  420. 


Wilkinson,  Tate  [1739-1803],  170, 

433. 
Woman's  Prize,  Fletcher's,  266. 
Wycherley,     William      [1640?- 

1716],  273. 

Young,  Edward  [1683-1765],  158. 

Zaire,  Voltaire,  190. 
Zoraida,  Hodson's,  63  n,  432. 


■ 


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